Chapter 3 - Shadows in the Penthouse
The guest suite of Declan’s penthouse was larger than Sadie’s entire studio apartment. It featured floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over the city skyline, a king-sized bed draped in crisp charcoal linens, and a walk-in closet stocked with unopened designer essentials.
Sadie didn't sleep.
She lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to the muffled sounds of Declan moving around the apartment. She tracked his footsteps: five paces to the kitchen, the hiss of the espresso machine, the rustle of heavy documents, the occasional low, authoritative rumble of his voice on a secure landline.
She raised her left arm, examining the neat sutures. Declan had sewn the wound with military precision. There was no infection, no swelling, only the sharp, persistent sting of healing muscle.
He’s too sharp, Sadie thought, closing her eyes. If he digs into my past, the paper trail won’t hold.
At 10:00 a.m., a light knock sounded at the bedroom door.
“Come in,” Sadie called out, sitting up and pulling the duvet over her legs.
Declan pushed the door open. He had showered and changed into a bespoke dark charcoal three-piece suit without a tie, his crisp white shirt unbuttoned at the collar. He carried a silver tray containing a mug of black coffee, a pot of chamomile tea, and a plate of scrambled eggs and toast.
“I didn't know if you drank coffee after getting stitched up,” he said, setting the tray on the nightstand.
Sadie looked at the tray, surprised. “You cooked?”
“I know how to scramble eggs,” Declan said dryly. “Eat. You lost blood.”
Sadie reached out with her right hand and picked up the tea. “Thank you.”
Declan pulled a heavy wooden chair from the corner and sat down opposite the bed, his posture effortlessly dominant. He watched her sip the tea.
“Mikhail got into the burner phone,” Declan stated.
Sadie paused, the cup hovering near her lips. “What did he find?”
“The phone received only two calls in the last forty-eight hours,” Declan said. “Both originated from a burner tower near the abandoned naval shipyards on the south side. The voice was electronically scrambled, but the message was simple: Retrieve the 1994 ledger and eliminate the archivist.”
Sadie’s fingers tightened on the ceramic mug. “The archivist?”
“That’s what they called you,” Declan said, his gaze pinning her to the headboard. “Why would an anonymous faction call my thirty-year-old secretary an archivist?”
Sadie took a slow breath, steadying her pulse. “Before I worked for you, Declan, I did archival research for an estate law firm in Boston. We digitized old trust assets for maritime families. If someone wanted records on the 1994 docks, they might have tracked my name from the firm’s registry.”
Declan leaned back, crossing one long leg over the other. “You have an answer for everything, don’t you, Sadie?”
“I have the truth,” she countered, meeting his eyes unflinchingly.
“The truth is a rare commodity in this town,” Declan said. “And usually, it comes with a high price tag.”
He reached into his breast pocket, pulled out an old silver key, and tossed it onto the tray beside her plate.
“What’s this?” Sadie asked.
“The key to the sub-basement archive in my family’s ancestral estate,” Declan said. “The Hayes family compound in Blackwood Ridge. My grandfather kept sixty years of private records, financial ledgers, and photographic records in a vault beneath the cellar. If the Falcone faction is looking for a 1994 ledger, it’s there.”
Sadie stared at the key. A cold tremor raced down her spine. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Because we’re leaving in twenty minutes,” Declan replied, standing up. “You’re coming with me.”
“Why me?”
“Because you know what a 1994 asset audit looks like,” Declan said, his voice dropping to a low, commanding timber. “And because if someone is hunting you, you’re safer under my gun than in this apartment alone. Put on the clothes in the closet. We move in fifteen.”
He turned and walked out of the room, closing the door firmly behind him.
Sadie got out of bed, her heart hammering against her ribs. She went to the closet and found a pair of black tactical pants, a thick dark turtleneck, and leather combat boots that matched her size with terrifying accuracy.
She pulled the clothes on carefully, protecting her stitched arm.
May you like
Blackwood Ridge, she thought as she laced the boots. The old Hayes estate. The place where it all started.
She looked at her reflection in the full-length mirror. Gone was the timid, invisible secretary with glasses and pinned hair. Staring back at her was a woman prepared for war.
