Chapter 7 - The Break-In
“Who are they?” Nathaniel demanded, his eyes narrowing as he stared at the security feed on Elena’s phone.
“I don't know,” Elena panicked, her hands trembling violently. “They’re tearing the place apart! Why would anyone break into my apartment? There’s nothing there! Just old furniture and Maisie’s toys!”
Nathaniel’s mind worked with terrifying speed. He understood instantly.
“Vance’s associates,” Nathaniel said grimly, his jaw clenching so hard muscles ticked in his cheek. “When Vance was arrested, federal agents seized his primary office computers, but his personal vault at his private residence hasn't been searched yet. His inner circle must think my father’s original partnership ledger contained secondary hidden deeds—deeds pointing to physical assets hidden away decades ago.”
“And they think I have them?” Elena asked, horrified.
“They know you inherited the estate rights. They’re looking for anything they can use as leverage to force a settlement before the SEC freezes their offshore accounts,” Nathaniel said, pulling out his satellite phone. “Marcus!”
The phone connected on the first ring.
“Boss?”
“Mobilize two tactical units to Elena Parker’s apartment in South Boston immediately. Two masked intruders are currently ransacking the premises. Arrest them on sight. Do not let them leave with a single item.”
“On our way, sir. ETA six minutes.”
“Six minutes is too long,” Nathaniel snapped, hanging up. He turned back to Elena, who was close to tears. “Come with me.”
“Where?”
“My car. We’re going to South Boston.”
“Nathaniel, no! It’s dangerous—”
“Nothing is dangerous when I’m with you,” he interrupted, his voice dropping into a tone that brooked zero argument. “Let’s go.”
Ten minutes later, Nathaniel’s armored SUV pulled up outside the run-down three-story brick apartment building in South Boston. The neighborhood was quiet, save for the wail of a distant siren.
The front entrance door hung crookedly on a single hinge, splintered wood scattered across the concrete step.
Nathaniel drew his licensed sidearm, checking the chamber with a crisp, mechanical clack. He looked down at Elena, who was clutching her purse like a shield.
“Stay right behind me,” he ordered softly.
“Be careful,” she whispered.
Nathaniel pushed the shattered door open and stepped into the dim, stale-smelling hallway. He moved with the calculated, silent grace of a trained professional—a side of the billionaire businessman that very few people ever saw.
They climbed the stairs to the second floor.
Elena’s apartment door was wide open. Inside, the sound of splintering wood, crashing ceramic, and tearing drywall echoed through the hallway.
Nathaniel raised his weapon, stepped across the threshold, and swept the room.
“Federal agents! Don’t move!” Nathaniel roared.
Two masked men standing in the center of the wreckage—one of them knee-deep in shredded sofa cushions—whipped around in sheer panic.
“Get him!” one shouted, lunging toward a heavy floor lamp to hurl it at Nathaniel.
Nathaniel didn't hesitate. He closed the distance in two strides, ducking the lamp, and delivered a devastating, textbook right hook to the man’s jaw. The intruder crumpled instantly, unconscious before he hit the laminate floor.
The second man panicked, grabbing a small metal lockbox from the shelf—a cheap tin box where Elena kept her birth certificate and grandmother's old letters—and sprinted toward the open window leading to the fire escape.
“Oh no you don't!” Elena shouted.
Before Nathaniel could stop her, Elena sprinted across the ruined living room, grabbed a heavy wooden broom handle from the corner, and swept it out like a baseball bat, catching the fleeing intruder directly behind the knees.
The man shrieked, tripping forward and slamming face-first into the floorboards. The metal lockbox flew from his hands, sliding across the room and coming to a stop right at Nathaniel’s polished shoes.
Nathaniel stepped down firmly on the man’s wrist, pinning him to the ground just as the wail of approaching police sirens echoed loudly from the street below.
A moment later, Marcus Bell and four tactical officers flooded through the shattered doorway, zip-ties at the ready.
“Secure the premises!” Marcus barked.
Nathaniel holstered his weapon, exhaled a long, steady breath, and looked down at Elena, who was leaning against the wall, breathing heavily, still holding the broom handle like a spear.
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A slow, profoundly admiring smile spread across Nathaniel’s face.
“Remind me,” Nathaniel said, “never to make you mad.”
