Chapter 4 - THE SNAKE IN THE GRASS
Three weeks in the Moretti penthouse had blurred the lines between captive and companion.
Gabriel was not the monster the tabloids painted him to be. At least, not to her or Chloe. He was quiet, intensely observant, and possessed a dry, razor-sharp wit that occasionally drew genuine laughter from Elena during their dinners together. He listened when she spoke about baking, about her mother’s fleeting moments of clarity, and about her dreams of one day opening a small café by the Hudson.
Yet, beneath the fragile peace, the underworld was boiling.
Marcus had traced the hit on Chloe’s SUV back to a rogue faction within the syndicate—men tied to Vincent Russo, an aging caporegime who believed Gabriel had grown too soft since his wife’s death.
It was a Tuesday evening when the storm finally broke.
Gabriel was locked in his private study on the seventy-fourth floor, reviewing encrypted wire transfers and intelligence reports regarding Russo’s offshore accounts.
Elena was in the sprawling gourmet kitchen with Chloe, teaching the little girl how to roll out dough for cinnamon rolls, when the penthouse security alarms began to wail—a shrill, rhythmic screech that made the hair on the back of Elena’s arms stand up.
Instantly, the kitchen lights flickered and died, plunging the room into emergency red illumination.
"Daddy?" Chloe whimpered, dropping her rolling pin and grabbing the hem of Elena’s apron.
"Stay right behind me, sweetheart," Elena instructed, her heart hammering against her ribs as she grabbed a heavy cast-iron skillet from the counter.
Before they could reach the hallway, heavy boots pounded against the hardwood floor.
Three men in black tactical gear burst into the kitchen, their faces obscured by ski masks, automatic rifles raised.
"Don't move!" one of them barked, his voice distorted by a radio modulator.
Elena didn't hesitate. Adrenaline surged through her veins, overriding her fear. As the lead intruder lunged forward to grab Chloe, Elena swung the cast-iron skillet with every ounce of strength she possessed, catching him square in the jaw with a sickening crack. The man crashed backward into the kitchen island, unconscious.
"Get away from her!" Elena screamed, grabbing a bag of flour and hurling it into the second intruder's face, blinding him in a white cloud of dust.
Before the third man could raise his weapon, a deafening explosion echoed from the hallway.
The kitchen door was blown inward.
Gabriel Moretti stood in the shattered frame, a silenced automatic pistol in his right hand, smoke curling from the barrel. His face was a mask of cold, terrifying wrath. He looked like the angel of death stepping out of an inferno.
In three rapid, perfectly calculated shots, the remaining intruders crumpled to the floor, neutralized without a single word.
Gabriel rushed forward, dropping to his knees to pull Chloe into his arms. "Are you hurt?" he demanded, his voice frantic as he checked her over.
"I'm okay, Daddy! Elena hit the bad guy with a pan!" Chloe cried, shaking but unharmed.
Gabriel looked up, his ice-blue eyes locking onto Elena, who was standing by the counter, chest heaving, still clutching the dented iron skillet with white knuckles. He stood up, crossing the room in two strides, and hauled her into his arms, crushing her against his chest in a desperate, fierce embrace.
"You could have been killed," Gabriel muttered against her hair, his voice trembling slightly—the only sign of the sheer terror that had gripped him.
"I protect what's mine," Elena whispered fiercely against his shoulder.
Gabriel pulled back, resting his hands on her shoulders, his gaze burning with a raw, terrifying intensity. "Russo thinks he can strike at my heart by coming here. He thinks I'm vulnerable because of you and Chloe."
"What are you going to do?" Elena asked, her breath catching.
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Gabriel’s lips curved into a cold, merciless smile.
"I'm going to show him what happens when a wolf wakes up."
