Chapter 3 - The King’s Rage
The private jet touched down at Logan International Airport at 3:15 AM in the middle of a torrential thunderstorm.
Adrian Vale descended the steps of the Gulfstream G650, his trenchcoat soaked within seconds by the driving rain. Behind him strode eight men in dark suits, their movements disciplined, silent, and lethal.
Among them was Julian Mercer—not a mobster, but Chicago's most brilliant, high-priced corporate defense attorney—and Lucas.
In the three weeks since Elena had vanished, Adrian had slept a total of twenty hours.
His eyes were bloodshot, his jaw stubbled with dark growth, his posture rigid with a terrifying, unexploded fury. The Syndicate in Chicago was currently teetering on the edge of war because Adrian had completely neglected union negotiations, port smuggling routes, and political bribes. He cared about none of it.
The city of Chicago meant nothing to him if the woman who held his heart was not in it.
"Where is she?" Adrian demanded, stepping into the back of a black Cadillac Escalade waiting on the tarmac.
Lucas closed the door behind them. "She's at an art restoration studio in the South End, boss. But the situation has changed."
"Changed how?" Adrian’s voice was low, dangerous.
"The lawyer who located her—Julian Thorne—is a heavy hitter," Mercer, the attorney, spoke up from the front seat. "Miss Hart—she’s no longer using your surname, Adrian—has officially claimed the Sterling Estate. As of yesterday afternoon, she holds diplomatic-level legal protection through the British consulate. Furthermore..." Mercer hesitated.
Adrian turned his gaze toward the lawyer. "Furthermore what?"
"She has retained the services of Vance Security," Mercer swallowed hard. "A private British defense firm staffed entirely by former SAS operators. They've established a hard perimeter around her residence."
Adrian let out a dark, breathless laugh that contained zero humor. "She hired mercenaries to keep me away from my child?"
"She didn't hire them to protect herself from a monster, Adrian," Lucas said quietly, venturing into dangerous territory. "She hired them because she knows you won't take 'no' for an answer."
Adrian stared out the rain-streaked window at the blurring lights of Boston.
He remembered the morning of their third wedding anniversary. He had come home at dawn, covered in dirt and exhaustion after a forty-eight-hour standoff with an Italian family in Detroit. Elena had met him at the door, brought him to the bathroom, and gently washed his blood-stained hands in warm water without asking a single question.
She had been his sanctuary. His quiet, unyielding peace.
And he had traded that peace for Serena Keller’s endless, manipulative hysterics.
Two hours after Adrian had returned to the Ritz-Carlton that night, his team had uncovered the truth: Serena had paid a local street kid fifty dollars to drive a black van behind her car so she could trigger an emergency alert on Adrian’s phone. She had known Elena was at home preparing dinner. She had wanted to prove that she still owned Adrian Vale’s loyalty.
When Adrian had discovered the fraud, he hadn't raised his hand against Serena. He had simply cut off her allowance, revoked her security detail, sold her father’s estate house to a commercial developer, and banished her from Chicago forever.
It was a cold, brutal punishment. But it was useless. Because the damage was already done.
"Take me to her," Adrian commanded flatly.
At 7:00 AM, the convoy of black Escalades pulled up outside the quiet brick building in the South End.
The rain had lessened to a soft drizzle. Standing on the sidewalk outside the art studio were four tall men in tactical coats, their hands folded calmly over their lapels. Their ear pieces flashed green.
Adrian stepped out of the car. Lucas and four Chicago enforcers moved with him.
The lead British guard stepped forward, holding up a single leather-gloved hand.
"Mr. Vale," the guard said, his voice clipped and polite. "Miss Hart is expecting you. But your men remain on the curb. You enter alone, unarmed."
Lucas stepped in front of Adrian, his hand reaching toward his coat. "The boss doesn't go anywhere unarmed—"
"Stand down, Lucas," Adrian ordered.
He unholstered his custom Kimber .45 pistol, handed it to Lucas, along with his pocket knife and satellite phone.
"If I'm not out in twenty minutes," Adrian told Lucas, "do nothing. Wait."
Adrian walked past the SAS guards, pushed open the brass-trimmed glass door, and stepped into the scent of linseed oil and turpentine.
The studio was quiet.
Standing at the far end of the room, lit by the gray morning light filtering through the high windows, stood Elena.
She wore a long, cream-colored wool sweater over dark leggings. Her dark hair was tied back in a loose braid.
She looked stunning. She looked serene. And as she turned to face him, Adrian felt his heart break into a thousand ragged pieces.
Because in her dark, beautiful eyes, there was no fear. No anger. No passion.
May you like
There was only distance.
"Hello, Adrian," she said softly.
