Chapter 3 - THE RAIN ON PARK AVENUE
Cereal boxes exploded into clouds of white dust and toasted oats.
Crack. Crack. Crack.
High-velocity rounds punched through the metal shelving.
Screams tore through the grocery store as shoppers crawled blindly across the linoleum.
Gabriel did not shout.
Panic was a luxury he had buried fifteen years ago.
His body shielded Claire completely, pressing her against the lower steel shelf.
His hands cupped her head, his chest taking the spray of plaster and splintered plastic.
Claire clutched his lapels, her breath coming in ragged, terrified gasps.
Her face was buried in his collar.
She felt the heavy steel bulk of his shoulder holster beneath his jacket.
“Stay flat,” Gabriel whispered in her ear.
His voice was terrifyingly calm.
Steady as an anchor in a hurricane.
Across the shattered aisle, Nathan was cowering beneath the bread racks, weeping uncontrollably.
Jessica had lost one of her heels, crawling on hands and knees toward the dairy cooler.
Gabriel’s two bodyguards—Marco and Lev—moved with brutal military precision.
Marco drew a suppressed automatic from his coat.
He leaned around the corner of the freezer aisle and fired three rapid shots through the shattered storefront.
A wet grunt sounded from the sidewalk outside.
A body hit the pavement with a heavy thud.
“Sniper on the fire escape across the street!” Marco called out.
“Second vehicle pulling up to the curb!”
Gabriel reached inside his coat.
He drew a matte-black Sig Sauer.
He checked the chamber with his thumb.
“Rear loading dock,” Gabriel commanded.
“Lev, suppress the street.”
“Marco, take point.”
Gabriel slid an arm beneath Claire’s knees and behind her back.
He lifted her into his arms in one fluid, effortless motion.
Claire gasped, her arms wrapping around his neck instinctively.
“Gabriel, I can walk!”
“The floor is covered in glass,” he replied smoothly.
“And your shoes are canvas.”
He carried her down the central aisle, stepping over broken jars of pasta sauce and spilled olive oil.
Bullets chewed through the ceiling tiles above them, raining fiberglass dust down like toxic snow.
Marco kicked open the heavy iron crash bar of the rear loading dock door.
The freezing October rain hit them like needles.
In the narrow alleyway sat an armored black Maybach, its engine idling with a low, deep rumble.
The rear door was already swinging open.
Gabriel placed Claire inside the leather cabin first, sliding in directly behind her.
Marco dove into the driver’s seat.
The heavy doors slammed shut with a pressurized thunk that erased the sounds of gunfire and sirens.
Marco threw the transmission into reverse, smashing through an empty wooden crate, then floored the gas into the wet avenue.
Claire pressed her hands against her belly.
She felt the tiny, distinct flutter beneath her ribs.
A kick.
The baby was awake.
Gabriel’s gaze dropped to her hands.
His expression softened, the cold mafia kingpin dissolving into something deeply human.
He reached out.
His large, warm palm covered both of her trembling hands over the sweater.
He felt the faint flutter beneath his fingertips.
Gabriel’s eyes widened slightly.
A muscle ticked in his jaw.
“It moved,” he breathed.
“She,” Claire whispered, her voice cracking with exhaustion and lingering fear.
“It’s a girl.”
Gabriel looked at her face.
Really looked at her.
For five months, he had wondered why she left his bed without taking a single dollar from his nightstand.
Why she had taken the subway back to Queens in the cold dawn.
Why she had refused his calls, changed her number, and moved three times.
“Why didn’t you tell me, Claire?”
Claire looked out the tinted window at the wet neon reflections of Manhattan rushing past.
“Because your world is a graveyard, Gabriel.”
“Look what happened ten minutes after you found me.”
“Someone tried to shoot through a grocery window.”
Gabriel’s hand did not leave her stomach.
In fact, his fingers tightened gently, anchoring her against the seat.
“My world was a graveyard before you walked onto that terrace in May,” Gabriel said.
“Now, it has something to defend.”
The Maybach turned sharply onto Park Avenue, pulling toward the gated courtyard of the DeLuca family high-rise.
Marco’s voice came over the internal speaker, tense and tight:
“Boss. We have a problem at the penthouse.”
Gabriel’s eyes snapped toward the front console.
“Report.”
“Your uncle, Vincent Moretti, is sitting in the private lobby.”
May you like
“He has four council elders with him.”
“And he’s holding an emergency syndicate warrant for the Hayes woman’s arrest.”
