Chapter 3 - The Sealed Envelope
The Swedish Medical Center ICU private wing was entirely silent at 3:00 AM, save for the rhythmic beep-beep-beep of my heart monitor.
The severe migraine had been brought on by a combination of extreme exhaustion, a minor vascular spasm, and the overwhelming psychological pressure of running from a past that was always destined to catch me. The doctors had administered a heavy dose of intravenous beta-blockers and sedatives, forcing my blood pressure down to safe levels.
When I opened my eyes, the room was bathed in the soft, blue glow of the streetlights outside the fourth-floor window.
Sitting in a leather armchair in the corner of the room was Griffin.
He had removed his dark overcoat and suit jacket. His white dress shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing the intricate, dark ink of tactical tattoos that stretched up his forearms—symbols of the Drake syndicate's brutal rise to power.
On his lap rested a tablet, its screen displaying eight live security feeds from the hallway outside my room. Four armored men stood guard at the elevator bank; two more were posted at the stairwell.
Beside his chair, fast asleep on a fold-out hospital cot, were Hazel and Iris, tucked beneath a thick velvet comforter that had clearly been brought from Griffin's private estate in Bellevue.
"They refused to sleep until they saw your monitor stop blinking red," Griffin said softly, his voice breaking the silence without raising its volume.
I turned my head slowly on the pillow. "You shouldn't have brought them here, Griffin. It isn't safe."
"Safe?" Griffin let out a short, humorless laugh. He set the tablet on the bedside table and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his large hands folded together. "Sloan, a Valenti assassin was ten seconds away from putting a bullet through your office window while my daughters were standing in the room. Safety left your life the moment Dominic Valenti found your address."
"How did he find me?" I whispered, my voice thick with emotion. "I changed my name. I used four different shell companies to buy the house. I paid cash for everything."
Griffin reached into his pocket and pulled out the clear plastic bag containing the black envelope. He held it up to the light.
"You bought your drafting software six months ago from a vendor in Vancouver," Griffin said. "That vendor is owned by a holding company that pays taxes to the Valenti family in Chicago. They didn't find you because of your name, Sloan. They found you because Dominic has been cross-referencing every architectural permit filed in Washington state for eight years, looking for your signature style."
I closed my eyes as a cold wave of horror washed over me. The distinctive, modern timber-and-glass structures I designed—the very career I had built to support my children—had been the trail of breadcrumbs that led my monster straight to my door.
"What does the letter say?" I asked, my throat dry.
Griffin slid the parchment out of the bag. He didn't need to read it; he had already memorized every word.
"'To the King of the Sound,'" Griffin recited, his voice dripping with venomous calm. "'You took my brother's territory in 2018. You took my shipping lanes in 2021. Now I have taken your heart. Deliver the deed to Pier 55 by midnight on December fifteenth, or I will send you the twins in two small wooden boxes.'"
I gasped, my hand flying to my mouth as a sob tore through my chest. "December fifteenth... that's... that's the day after their birthday."
"I know," Griffin said.
He stood up, walking slowly over to the side of my bed. He looked down at me, his massive frame blotting out the light from the window.
"For eight years, I thought you left me because you hated what I was," Griffin said, his voice dropping into a register so dark, so heavy, that it felt like an anchor dropping into deep water. "I thought I wasn't enough for you. I thought my money was too dirty, my hands were too bloody, and my world was too dark."
He reached down, his long fingers gently picking up my hand, feeling the rapid, erratic pulse in my wrist.
"I spent eight years respecting your choice," he continued, his eyes burning into mine. "I stayed away. I never searched for you. I let you live your quiet, clean life because I thought it was what you wanted."
He leaned in closer, his warm breath fanning across my forehead.
"Why didn't you tell me, Sloan? Why didn't you tell me I had daughters?"
"Because look at what's happening right now!" I cried, tears streaming down my cheeks, splashing onto his hand. "Look at this room! Look at the armed guards outside the door! Look at the envelope! If I had stayed with you, Griffin, they would have been born into a war zone! They would have spent their lives behind bulletproof glass, waiting for the next car bomb or the next kidnapping threat!"
"And instead, they were almost murdered in a West Seattle backyard because you had no one to protect you!" Griffin roared in a fierce, low whisper, his grip tightening around my hand.
The room went dead quiet, save for the soft snoring of the two girls on the cot.
Griffin looked at the twins, his expression softening for a fraction of a second before hardening into solid steel once more.
"You tried to protect them from my world, Sloan," Griffin said softly. "And I respect you for it. But your world failed today. Mine won't."
"What are you going to do?" I asked, terrified of the answer.
"At 8:00 AM, the doctors are going to discharge you," Griffin said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a heavy, dark gold signet ring engraved with a crest of a dragon wrapping around an anchor. He placed it on the bedside table beside my IV pole. "My men are moving everything you own out of the West Seattle house. By noon, you and the girls will be living at my estate in Hunts Point."
"I am not moving into your fortress, Griffin!"
"You don't have a choice," Griffin said, his voice absolute, terrifying, and final. "Dominic Valenti wants a war. I am going to give him one. And while I tear his empire apart brick by brick, my daughters are going to be behind six feet of reinforced concrete, guarded by forty men who would die before letting a single hair on their heads be harmed."
He turned toward the door, pulling his charcoal suit jacket back over his shoulders.
"Where are you going?" I called out, my heart hammering against my chest.
May you like
Griffin stopped at the door, his hand resting on the handle. He looked back over his shoulder, those glowing sea-green eyes holding mine in the dim blue light.
"I'm going to Pier 55," Griffin said quietly. "To teach Dominic Valenti what happens when you write a letter about my children."
