Chapter 3 - The Rain-Slicked TrapThe rain had turned into a steady, gray deluge by the time I hit the pavement on 57th Street. The wind whipped off the river, driving freezing drops against my face as I pulled the hood of my coat over my head and broke into a fast, purposeful walk toward the subway entrance two blocks away.
I couldn't just stay in the penthouse and wait to see who survived.
Once Marcus realized how much I knew—how easily a temporary housemaid had connected the dots on signal jammers, Sig Sauer magazines, and internal syndicates—I would become a loose end. In Gabriel Rossi’s world, loose ends were tied off with industrial zip ties and dropped into the river alongside Dominic Santoro.
My only chance of survival was to stay ahead of the falling dominoes.
By 2:30 PM, I was downtown, standing beneath the green awning of a crowded deli across the street from the gray stone facade of the Rossi Holdings commercial tower in the Financial District.
The street was gridlocked. Taxis honked furiously; pedestrians with black umbrellas surged past in a blur of corporate gray and navy blue. But across the four-lane boulevard, idling by the private loading zone of the tower, sat the black armored Escalade.
Miller was leaning against the passenger fender, smoking a cigarette despite the pouring rain. His coat was buttoned high up to his chin, concealing the bulk of the weapon I had seen him inspect that morning.
My heart hammered against my ribs.
Where was Gabriel?
Meetings at Rossi Holdings usually ran for ninety minutes. If he had entered the building at 1:00 PM, he would be walking out the side security exit any minute now—right into the kill zone Miller had set up.
I pulled out my burner phone, my fingers shaking as I dialed Marcus Vance’s number again.
It picked up on the first ring.
“Talk,” Marcus snapped. The background noise sounded like the inside of a speeding vehicle—sirens wailing, tires hissing against wet asphalt.
“I’m across the street from the tower,” I whispered, pressing myself flat against the brick wall beside the deli’s cigarette machine. “Miller is still by the Escalade. He’s waiting for the boss to come down the side exit. Where are you?”
“We’re two blocks away,” Marcus said. “The traffic on Broadway is completely locked up. We’re on foot cutting through the parking garage on Liberty Street.”
“You won't make it in time,” I said, watching the revolving glass doors of the Rossi tower begin to spin. “The side exit door just opened. Gabriel is coming out.”
“Elena, listen to me,” Marcus ordered, his voice sharp with command. “Do not move. Do not draw attention to yourself. If Miller sees you—!”
I didn't let him finish. I hit the end call button, shoved the phone into my pocket, and stepped off the curb.
The crosswalk signal was red, but I didn't wait. I darted between a stalled city bus and a FedEx van, my boots splashing through deep puddles of oily gray water.
Gabriel stepped out into the rain, pulling his umbrella open with one fluid motion. He wore the same charcoal suit I had pressed that morning, his dark hair damp from the wind. He didn't look like a cornered beast; he looked like a king walking through his courtyard, completely unaware that his executioner was holding the door.
Miller straightened up from the Escalade, his right hand slipping smoothly into the deep pocket of his overcoat.
I saw the heavy black muzzle of the pistol begin to angle outward through the fabric before anyone else on the crowded sidewalk even realized what was happening.
“Gabriel!” I screamed, throwing my weight forward.
My voice was swallowed instantly by the roar of a passing garbage truck and the screech of municipal brakes, but the sudden movement caused Gabriel to instinctively jerk backward, his foot slipping on the wet granite curb.
Crack.
A silenced round punched through the side panel of the Escalade, sending a shower of metallic sparks flying into the air just inches from Gabriel’s shoulder.
Pedestrians screamed, scattering in every direction like panicked starlings, umbrellas dropping onto the wet concrete as people dove for cover behind newsstands and parking meters.
Miller cursed loudly, ripping his hand completely free of the coat pocket, bringing the Sig Sauer up to finish the shot.
Before he could re-acquire his target, I slammed into his side like a defensive tackle, driving my shoulder directly into his midsection with all the momentum I had gathered across forty yards of sprinting.
Miller’s breath left his lungs in a violent, wheezing gasp. He stumbled backward against the armored door of the SUV, his weapon flying from his grip and clattering across the wet pavement into the gutter.
“What the—!” Miller roared, his face twisting into a mask of pure fury as he caught me by the collar of my coat and threw me against the side of the vehicle with bone-jarring force.
My head struck the cold metal frame, a white flash of pain exploding behind my eyes.
Before Miller could draw a secondary blade from his belt, a heavy shadow fell over both of us.
Gabriel Rossi had not fallen. He had moved with terrifying, predatory speed, closing the distance between them in two long strides. His gloved hand caught Miller by the throat, slamming the older man’s head back against the armored window with a sickening thud that cracked the glass.
“Miller,” Gabriel breathed, his voice not angry, but devastatingly, impossibly cold. “Thirteen years.”
Miller gurgled, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth, his fingers clawing frantically at Gabriel’s iron grip. “Gabe... you don't... you don't know what they have...”
“I know enough,” Gabriel said softly.
He didn't pull a gun. He simply drove his fist straight into Miller’s solar plexus, folding the traitor double before dropping him unconscious onto the wet pavement like a sack of wet cement.
Sirens wailed in the distance, growing louder by the second.
Gabriel turned slowly, his dark eyes searching the rain-swept sidewalk until they landed on me. I was sliding down the side of the Escalade, holding my head where a warm trickle of blood was beginning to soak into my hair.
Gabriel knelt beside me in the mud, his expression completely transformed from the cold executioner of a moment ago into something dark, intense, and unreadable.
“You ruined a very expensive suit,” he said quietly, though his hand gently steadied my shoulder so I wouldn't collapse into the puddle.
“You’re welcome,” I whispered back, wincing as the world spun slightly on its axis.
Marcus Vance skidded around the corner with three armed guards behind him, breathing hard, his weapon drawn. He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw Miller unconscious in the gutter and the temporary housemaid sitting in the mud beside his boss.
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“Gabe,” Marcus panted, lowering his weapon slowly. “Are you—?”
“Call the cleaner team,” Gabriel interrupted, his eyes never leaving mine. Then, very carefully, he scooped me up into his arms as if I weighed nothing at all, ignoring the mud staining the knees of his trousers. “And get the car moving. We’re going home.”
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