Chapter 5 - The First Strike
The reception hall of Ashford Manor was designed to seat three hundred and fifty guests in opulent, glittering luxury. Crystal chandeliers hung from vaulted oak ceilings, and tables were laden with caviar, vintage Dom Pérignon, and silver tableware.
Yet, as Adrian and Emily entered the grand ballroom, an oppressive, icy chill filled the room.
The guests had reluctantly taken their seats, but conversations dropped to hostile whispers the moment the double doors swung open. Nobody dared approach the bridal table. Senator Vance sat at table one, glaring daggers across the room, already typing furiously on his encrypted satellite phone—undoubtedly coordinating with Damien Cross to figure out how to destroy the newly minted Mrs. Moretti before the night was over.
At the center table, Adrian sat tall in his custom wheelchair, cutting a steak with practiced precision, while Emily sat beside him, elegantly sipping sparkling water.
“You’ve just declared war on half the political establishment of the East Coast, Mr. Moretti,” Emily murmured quietly, cutting a piece of roasted potatoes. “Senator Vance looks like he’s about to stroke out.”
Adrian chuckled, a dark, dangerous sound. “Arthur Vance owes his entire political career to syndicate funding that I inherited and subsequently legalized through my real estate developments. The moment he thinks he can turn on me, he forgets that I hold the ledgers detailing every bribe he’s taken since 2012.”
He paused, turning his dark eyes toward Emily with a softer, inquiring gaze.
“Are you scared, Emily?”
Emily set her fork down, wiped her mouth with a linen napkin, and looked him dead in the eye.
“Mr. Moretti,” she said evenly. “Three months ago, my landlord padlocked my apartment door while my six-year-old son, Toby, was inside recovering from a severe asthma attack. I had twelve dollars in my purse and nowhere to go. Do you really think a few corrupt politicians and a cowardly ex-fiancée scare me?”
Adrian’s expression shifted. A deep, profound wave of respect washed over his features. He reached across the table, covering her hand with his large palm.
“Call me Adrian,” he said softly.
Before Emily could reply, the heavy mahogany doors of the ballroom slammed open.
Marcus Hale walked in, flanked by two armed security guards, holding a small, heavy silver tray. His face was carved from granite, his eyes narrowed into dangerous slits.
“Boss,” Marcus said, stepping up to the edge of the table and ignoring the staring guests. “We intercepted a courier at the service gate. He tried to drop this off bypassing the metal detectors.”
Marcus lifted a dark velvet box from the tray and set it gently beside Adrian’s water glass.
Adrian’s eyes narrowed. He popped the latch of the velvet box and flipped the lid open.
May you like
Inside sat a pristine, expensive pediatric medical inhaler—the exact brand prescribed for severe chronic asthma. But the canister had been deliberately punctured, and resting beside it was a typed note on heavy cardstock.
Congratulations on the wedding, Moretti. Heard your new little house maid has a sickly boy. Would be a shame if his air supply ran out while you’re busy playing dress-up. — D.C.
