Chapter 3 - THE RUN THROUGH CENTRAL PARK
Screams tore through the pitch-black ballroom.
Chandelier crystals crashed to the floor like hail.
Gunfire ripped through the dark, muzzle flashes strobing against the velvet curtains.
Pop-pop-pop.
Genevieve was pulled violently downward.
Lorenzo’s arm locked around her waist, shielding her torso with his own body.
His coat wrapped around her like an iron shell.
“Stay low,” he commanded in her ear.
His voice didn't waver.
It was chillingly calm amid the slaughter.
She heard the wet thud of someone collapsing into the ice sculpture nearby.
Winston was shouting in the distance, his voice high and shrill with panic.
“Hold the fire! The girl is on the floor!”
Lorenzo drew a heavy automatic pistol from beneath his arm.
He didn't fire blindly.
He tracked the orange muzzle flashes near the terrace doors.
He fired twice.
Two hollow thuds answered him.
The shooting from the terrace stopped instantly.
“Nico,” Lorenzo spoke into his collar.
“Service exit clear?”
A crackle of static answered.
“Clear for thirty seconds, Boss. Suburban waiting on 61st.”
Lorenzo hoisted Genevieve to her feet.
He didn't give her time to think.
He kept his left arm wrapped securely around her waist, half-carrying her through the screaming crowd.
They burst through the heavy double doors into the service corridor.
Fluorescent emergency strips flickered red along the floor.
Genevieve’s heels clicked wildly on the linoleum.
She slipped on a patch of spilled ice water.
Before her knees could hit the ground, Lorenzo caught her by the forearm, lifting her effortlessly back onto her feet.
“The shoes,” he ordered.
She kicked off her satin pumps without hesitation.
Her bare feet hit the freezing tile.
They took the concrete fire stairs three at a time.
Behind them, heavy boots began pounding down the metal steps.
“Costa!” a voice roared from above.
Preston Gable.
“You walk out with that girl and you forfeit the shipping corridor!”
Lorenzo did not look up.
He didn't slow down.
“Tell your father the corridor is already soaked in his blood,” Lorenzo muttered.
They kicked open the heavy iron crash bar at the bottom of the stairwell.
The freezing night air hit Genevieve like a physical blow.
Snow was falling thick over 61st Street, coating the black asphalt in slush.
An armored matte-black SUV idled at the curb, its exhaust billowing white clouds into the darkness.
Nico, Lorenzo’s lieutenant, held the rear door wide.
He had a submachine gun slung across his tactical vest.
“Get in!” Nico barked.
Lorenzo shoved Genevieve into the leather interior first, sliding in immediately behind her.
The heavy door slammed shut with a pressurized thud.
The driver floored the accelerator.
Tires screamed against the wet slush.
The SUV fishtailed onto Fifth Avenue, tearing past the snow-covered trees of Central Park.
Genevieve pressed her back against the leather seat, gasping for breath.
Her hair had come undone from its pins, falling across her face in dark tangles.
Her hands were shaking uncontrollably.
Beside her, Lorenzo reloaded his magazine with practiced, mechanical precision.
The metallic click-clack of the slide chambering a round sounded loud in the sealed cabin.
He set the weapon on the console between them.
Then he reached out.
His bare hand took her chin, gently turning her head toward him.
His thumb wiped away a streak of black soot from her cheekbone.
“Are you hit?” he asked.
His hazel eyes scanned her bare shoulders, her torn gown, her stockinged feet.
“No,” she whispered.
Her teeth were chattering so hard they clicked.
“Who was shooting at us?”
“Gable’s private contractors,” Lorenzo said.
He picked up a heavy wool blanket from the floor and draped it over her trembling shoulders.
“Your father didn't just borrow money from me, Genevieve.”
“He took an advance from the Gable syndicate to build a deep-water dock in Brooklyn.”
“He promised them the title to Harrington Maritime.”
Genevieve pulled the blanket tight around her throat.
“That company belongs to my mother’s estate.”
“Her will explicitly stated that the docks cannot be sold without my consent.”
Lorenzo’s lips curved into a cold, grim smile.
“Exactly.”
“Which is why your father needed you blamed for the three-million-dollar theft.”
“A convicted felon loses all executor rights under New York probate law.”
The cruelty of it knocked the remaining air from Genevieve’s lungs.
Charlotte’s laughter in the ballroom.
The condescending comments about her mended dress.
The calculated isolation.
They hadn't just tolerated her.
They had been preparing her for a federal prison cell.
“Where are you taking me?” she asked, looking out the tinted glass.
The city lights were blurring past into the dark expanse of the Henry Hudson Parkway.
“Somewhere they cannot touch you,” Lorenzo said.
Suddenly, a deafening crunch shook the frame of the SUV.
The armor shuddered violently.
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From the left lane, a heavy snowplow truck with a reinforced steel ram slammed into their driver’s side door.
The SUV spun across three lanes of black ice, hurtling toward the concrete retaining wall of the Hudson River.
