Chapter 3 - The Penthouse Guest
The guest suite on the forty-third floor was larger than the entire apartment building Emma grew up in. It featured floor-to-ceiling windows showing the sprawl of Chicago’s glowing grid, a bathroom with heated marble floors and a clawfoot tub, and a closet filled with designer loungewear that surprisingly accommodated her curvy frame.
Emma soaked in the lavender-scented water until her fingers pruned, trying to convince herself this wasn't an elaborate hallucination brought on by malnutrition and twenty-seven dollars in her bank account. When she finally stepped out, wrapped in a plush cashmere robe that actually tied comfortably around her waist, she found a private physician waiting in the sitting area along with Luca.
“Mr. Vale insisted you be examined,” the doctor said gently. “In case you inhaled any powdered particulates while destroying the appliance.”
After a quick, clean bill of health, Emma was escorted downstairs to Adrian’s private dining quarters. The massive mahogany table was set for two. Adrian sat at the head, dressed in a fresh white linen shirt, its cuffs rolled up to reveal muscular forearms crisscrossed with old, faded scars. The sickly gray pallor had faded slightly, replaced by a fierce, restless energy.
A private chef wheeled in a cart carrying broiled sea bass, steamed asparagus, and wild rice. Adrian barely touched his plate, his dark eyes tracking Emma as she sat down across from him.
“Eat,” he said simply. “You’ve been surviving on stale pastries and instant coffee for six months. Don’t pretend you haven't.”
Emma felt her cheeks flush pink. “How do you know that?”
“I own the building, Miss Brooks. When someone works in my lobby, my security team runs a background check. Emma Brooks. Twenty-nine. Father was Arthur Brooks, master machinist, died two years ago leaving eighty thousand in medical debts. You sold his shop to pay off the loan sharks, took two jobs, and lived in a residential motel on Cicero Avenue. You don’t steal. You don’t complain. And you don’t flinch when twelve men pull Glocks in an enclosed room.”
Emma picked up her fork, taking a small, heavenly bite of the sea bass. “When you grow up on the South Side with a dad who fixes gearboxes for bookies, you learn that screaming never keeps anyone from shooting. Besides, your boiler was whistling in B-flat. That only happens when the back-pressure valve is blocked by solids.”
A faint laugh rumbled in Adrian’s chest—a deep, rough sound that seemed entirely foreign to his severe features. “You’re a strange woman, Emma.”
“I’m an unemployed woman,” she countered, setting her fork down and meeting his gaze squarely. “You told Doug he was handing over the lobby café franchise to me. Did you mean that, or was that just mafia theater to terrify a middle manager?”
Adrian leaned back, swirling sparkling water in a crystal tumbler. “I don't do theater. The lease and operating license will be in your name by Friday. But that’s not your job anymore.”
Emma frowned. “Then what is?”
“Frank Moretti took Peter Danner down to our holding facility,” Adrian said, his voice dropping into a deadly register. “Before Peter passed out, he gave up a drop location. The person paying him wasn't an outside rival. The money came from an offshore account linked directly to the Vale Shipping executive payroll. Someone inside my family wants me dead. And they want it to look like natural organ failure before the annual Commission summit in four weeks.”
Emma swallowed hard. “I’m sorry, Mr. Vale, but I’m a coffee mechanic. I can’t shoot a gun, and I certainly can’t fight mobsters.”
“I have four hundred men who can shoot guns,” Adrian replied, leaning forward until his face was only inches across the table. “What I don't have is someone I can trust with what goes into my body. For the next month, you prepare every meal. You brew every drop of water I drink. You inspect every kitchen I step into. You stay in this penthouse, under my personal protection. In exchange, I clear your father’s remaining debts, purchase the commercial building your father lost, and give it back to you debt-free.”
Emma’s breath hitched. Her father’s shop. The dream she had buried under tears and overdue notices.
“Why me?” she whispered. “You don't even know me.”
“Because when I collapsed on that lobby floor, every executive stepped around me to protect their quarterly bonuses,” Adrian said softly, his eyes boring into hers. “Doug tried to kick me out of sight. My own guards hesitated. But you put your back between me and the world so strangers wouldn't see me bleed. That kind of loyalty can't be bought on the street, Emma. You have a deal?”
Emma looked at his outstretched hand. His fingers were long, powerful, calloused from years of violence, yet his grip had held onto her sleeve like a drowning child earlier that morning.
May you like
She reached out and placed her small, soft hand into his. “I have a deal. But rule number one: no more espresso until I personally forge a stainless-steel boiler from scratch.”
A genuine smile broke across Adrian Vale’s face. “Deal.”
