Chapter 8 - The Purge of the Estate
“Adrian?” Naomi asked, sitting up quickly, sensing the sudden shift in the air. “What is it?”
Adrian didn't answer. He set the crystal glass down on the nightstand with terrifying precision, then walked over to the house phone mounted near the balcony doors.
He lifted the receiver. “Marcus. Lockdown level red. Lock all external gates. Bring the kitchen staff to the subterranean holding room. Now.”
Naomi’s heart hammered against her ribs. “Adrian! Was that… was the milk poisoned?”
Adrian turned to face her. His face was no longer that of a husband; it was the face of the demon who ruled Vale Maritime. Cold, dead, and utterly devoid of mercy.
“Stay in this room,” Adrian commanded, pulling his gun from the bedside drawer and checking the action with a sharp, metallic click. “Lock the doors behind me. Do not open them for anyone except me or Dr. Thorne.”
“Adrian, wait!” Naomi cried out, swinging her legs over the side of the bed.
He walked over to her, grabbing her face in both of his hands and pressing a fierce, hard kiss against her lips. The intensity of it took her breath away—a taste of iron, rain, and raw, possessive love.
“No one touches what is mine,” Adrian growled against her lips.
He pulled back, walked out of the master suite, and pulled the heavy oak doors shut. Naomi heard the heavy electronic deadbolts click into place from the outside.
Downstairs, the estate erupted into a nightmare.
Heavy footfalls echoed through the hallways as Marcus’s tactical security teams swept through the mansion. The kitchen staff—four cooks, two prep assistants, and the young maid who had delivered the tray—were rounded up and marched down into the reinforced basement beneath the wine cellar.
Adrian descended the concrete stairs, his dark suit jacket unbuttoned, his gun held loosely at his side.
The seven staff members stood lined up against the cold brick wall, trembling under the red emergency lights. Marcus stood beside them, holding a tablet displaying the mansion’s internal CCTV security logs.
“Who prepared the milk?” Adrian asked, his voice echoing off the damp concrete walls like a death sentence.
The head chef, an old Italian man who had served Adrian’s father for twenty years, stepped forward, his hands shaking violently. “Mr. Vale, I swear on my mother’s soul! I heated the milk myself! I left it on the counter for two minutes while I answered the service intercom!”
Adrian looked at Marcus.
Marcus tapped the tablet screen, bringing up a zoomed-in feed of the kitchen. “At 11:42 PM, the prep assistant, Leo, stepped near the service counter while the head chef was away. He reached into his apron pocket.”
Every eye in the room snapped to Leo—a twenty-four-year-old local boy who had been hired six months ago to assist with event catering.
Leo’s face went pale as sheet. He took a terrified step back toward the iron door. “Mr. Vale! Please! They threatened my family! A man called me two days ago—he said if I didn't drop the powder into her drink, they would kill my sister in South Chicago!”
Adrian didn't raise his voice. He walked slowly over to Leo, stopping two inches away.
“Moretti?” Adrian asked softly.
Leo sobbed, nodding frantically. “Yes! Yes! He gave me fifty thousand dollars in cash! Please, Mr. Vale! I didn't want to do it!”
Adrian looked at Marcus. “Find the sister. Bring her to a safe house in Evanston so she’s secure.”
Leo gasped with sudden relief. “Thank you, Mr. Vale! Thank you!”
Adrian looked back at Leo, his dark eyes pitch black.
May you like
“Your sister is safe,” Adrian whispered coldly. “You are not.”
Adrian raised his weapon, and a single silenced report echoed through the basement.
