Chapter 3 - THE HIGH-RISE ON MICHIGAN AVENUE
Adrian shoved Emma behind the heavy granite base of the fountain.
The bullet struck the stone inches from his ear.
Powdered marble stung his cheek.
Adrian didn't flinch.
He raised his weapon, sighted down the barrel, and fired once.
The impostor crumpled onto the asphalt between the open car doors.
Adrian grabbed Emma’s hand.
His grip was immovable steel.
"Move!"
They bolted across the plaza toward the alleyway behind the restaurant.
Emma ran blindly, her feet numb against the wet pavement.
Sirens began howling in the distant downtown grid.
Two blocks through the shadow of the alleys, Adrian stopped beside a nondescript gray garage.
He punched a seven-digit code into an electronic keypad concealed behind a drainpipe.
The corrugated iron shutter lifted with a muffled pneumatic hiss.
Inside sat a matte-black armored Audi sedan.
Adrian opened the passenger door, shoved Emma inside, and slammed it shut.
He vaulted into the driver's seat.
He pressed the ignition button.
The twin-turbo engine roared to life with a deep, menacing purr.
The Audi surged out into the alley, tires biting into the wet brick.
Emma pressed her back against the leather seat, gasping for air.
Her hands were shaking uncontrollably.
"Who are you?" she cried out.
Her voice cracked with panic.
"My name is Adrian Thorne," he answered calmly, weaving the heavy car through traffic.
"Thorne?"
Emma stared at his profile in the amber dashboard glow.
"As in Thorne Maritime and Freight?"
"Among other things."
"You're a mob boss," she said, the realization hitting her like ice water.
"I run an organization that protects its investments," Adrian replied smoothly.
"Someone just shot at me with a machine gun because of your investments!"
"They shot at me," Adrian corrected her. "You were simply holding my noodles."
"They were my noodles!" she yelled.
A ghost of a smirk touched the corner of Adrian's lips.
"You're remarkably brave for an interior decorator."
"I am terrified!" she snapped.
"Fear keeps people alive. Panic gets them killed."
He made a sharp turn onto Michigan Avenue, accelerating toward a luxury glass residential spire overlooking Lake Michigan.
The high-rise towered eighty stories into the low clouds.
The Audi slid down a private subterranean ramp beneath the tower.
Three steel security gates opened sequentially after scanning Adrian’s license plate and retina.
They stopped in a private elevator bay with no other vehicles in sight.
Adrian turned off the engine.
He turned toward her in the dim LED lighting of the garage.
His eyes swept over her face.
He reached out.
His knuckles gently brushed the hot red smudge of chili oil from her cheek.
The touch was unexpectedly gentle.
Emma froze.
Her breath caught in her throat.
For a second, the violence of the street vanished.
"You're bleeding on your hand," Adrian murmured.
Emma looked down.
A shard of shattered glass from the table was embedded in her palm.
She hadn't even felt it.
"Come," Adrian said, stepping out of the car. "We fix that upstairs."
He led her into a private elevator that required a biometric fingerprint scan.
The car ascended silently at terrifying speed.
Floor seventy-eight.
The doors opened directly into a vast, minimalist penthouse.
Floor-to-ceiling glass wrapped around the living room, showing the dark, endless expanse of Lake Michigan.
The furniture was sleek, dark, and utterly devoid of personal clutter.
Adrian walked to a wet bar, pulled a sterile first-aid kit from a cabinet, and set it on the granite counter.
He washed his hands thoroughly at the sink.
"Sit," he commanded softly.
Emma sat on the leather barstool.
Adrian took her small hand in his.
His touch was steady, practiced, and clinical.
He used tweezers to slide the glass sliver from her skin.
Emma winced, her fingers tightening around his wrist.
Beneath his tailored cuff, his skin was warm, his pulse steady and rhythmic.
He cleaned the wound with antiseptic and pressed a sterile bandage over it.
"Thank you," she whispered.
"I owe you an apology," Adrian said, meeting her eyes.
"The catering order was not a mistake."
Emma frowned. "What?"
"The restaurant manager was paid fifty thousand dollars this morning to divert my driver," Adrian said.
"The chicken and rice was supposed to keep me waiting inside while they staged the ambush outside."
"Then you walked in."
"You complained about sesame noodles."
"You convinced me to take the bags across the street to the plaza five minutes before their shooters were in position."
Adrian leaned his hands on the marble counter, his face inches from hers.
"You ruined their kill zone, Emma."
"Which means whoever ordered the hit now knows your face."
Before Emma could speak, his wall-mounted security terminal chimed.
A blueprint loaded onto the 60-inch high-definition display.
Emma glanced at the screen, and the air vanished from her lungs.
"Wait," Emma gasped, standing up.
"What is it?" Adrian asked.
Emma pointed a trembling finger at the blueprint on the screen.
"That's the penthouse for the new Sterling Tower on Wacker Drive."
"Yes," Adrian said. "Belongs to Dominic Sterling."
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"I drew those plans," Emma whispered in horror.
"My firm was hired to design his private vault."
