Chapter 7 - Shadows in the Penthouse
The digital clock on Mave’s bedside table read 2:14 AM. The apartment was dead silent, save for the hum of the central air conditioning and the distant wail of a midnight siren. Mave stirred beneath the heavy duvet, her instincts—sharpened by months of surviving an underworld war—jolting her awake instantly.
The air pressure in the room had shifted. The faint, sweet scent of imported orchids had been replaced by the sharp, metallic tang of ozone and cold rain.
Mave didn't move. She kept her breathing slow and even, her eyes darting across the dark bedroom. Near the balcony door, the sheer curtain billowed inward, letting in a gust of damp night air. A dark silhouette detached itself from the frame, moving with silent, terrifying grace toward the bed.
She slid her hand slowly beneath her pillow, her fingers closing around the cold, checkered grip of the compact Smith & Wesson Vincent had insisted she keep after the Plaza gala.
The intruder stepped closer, the moonlight catching the pale flash of a silencer-fitted pistol.
Mave didn't wait. She whipped the pillow aside, raising the revolver and squeezing the trigger twice in rapid succession. The heavy thuds of the silenced shots shattered the quiet, punching two holes through the mattress where her chest had been a fraction of a second before.
The intruder grunted, stumbling backward from the surprise counter-attack, but he wasn't alone. Heavy footsteps thundered down the hallway of her apartment—a second operative was moving in from the living room.
Mave rolled off the bed, hitting the hardwood floor with a muffled thud, and scrambled toward the en-suite bathroom. She slammed the heavy wooden door shut, clicking the privacy lock just as a heavy shoulder smashed against the exterior panels, splintering the frame.
"Secure the perimeter!" a harsh voice hissed outside. "She’s armed!"
Mave’s hands shook as she pulled her encrypted cell phone from her robe pocket, dialing the single emergency speed-dial button she had memorized. It rang once. Twice.
"Talk to me," Vincent’s voice came through the speaker instantly, cold, sharp, and laced with immediate adrenaline. He wasn't sleeping; men like Vincent Costa never truly slept.
"Bedrcom compromised," Mave whispered frantically, pressing her back against the tiled bathroom wall as another blow shook the door. "Two men. Maroni’s crew. They bypassed the lobby security."
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"Lock the bathroom door. Stay away from the glass. I'm three minutes out," Vincent commanded, his voice dropping into a register of absolute, terrifying fury. "Mave, look at me—they won't touch you. Do you hear me? Stay alive."
The bathroom door gave way with a sickening crack as a boot heel smashed through the lock.
