Chapter 2 - The Shadow on the WallThe green room behind the main stage was quiet, insulated from the roar of the charity auction happening in the grand ballroom.
Nadia sat on a velvet sofa, carefully wiping down her cello strings with a microfiber cloth before placing the instrument back into its velvet-lined case.
Cael sat across from her in a heavy leather armchair, his long legs crossed, watching every movement of her hands. Dario stood by the door, his hand resting casually beneath his tailored suit jacket.
"You played with anger," Cael remarked, his deep voice breaking the quiet.
Nadia paused, her cloth hovering over the tailpiece. "I played with precision."
"Precision is the weapon, Nadia. Anger was the fuel." Cael leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Who hurt you?"
Nadia let out a soft, dry laugh, latching the first brass clip of her case. "You talk as if you're a counselor, Mr. Sanna. You're a man who carries four armed guards into a hotel lobby."
"Six," Dario corrected automatically from the door.
"Dario," Cael warned quietly.
"Right. Keeping quiet."
Nadia set the cloth aside and folded her hands in her lap, facing in Cael's direction. "Twelve years ago, my father’s workshop in Brooklyn burned down. He was a luthier—he crafted custom violins and cellos. Someone torched the building for insurance money, not knowing my father and I were inside the back room."
Cael’s eyes darkened into pure steel. "Who was the arsonist?"
"A man named Marcus Vance," Nadia said, her voice dropping into a cold, flat register. "He worked for an enforcement crew in Lower Manhattan. My father died in the fire. I survived, but the smoke and heat permanently destroyed my optic nerves. Vance was never charged because the evidence mysteriously vanished from the precinct warehouse."
Cael went completely still.
Dario shifted his weight near the door, his eyes darting toward his boss with sudden, grave concern.
"Marcus Vance," Cael repeated, the name tasting like ash on his tongue.
"Yes," Nadia said, picking up her white cane. "So when a man like you walks into my life talking about 'protection,' you'll forgive me if I don't swoon. The last time 'protected' men operated in my neighborhood, I lost my father and my sight."
She stood up, pulling the cello strap over her shoulder. "My performance is over, Mr. Sanna. My check will be mailed to my apartment. I am going home."
"It's flooding outside, Nadia," Cael said smoothly, standing up to match her height. "The subway lines are shut down on 57th Street. My car is waiting in the private underground bay."
"I take the bus," she said stubbornly.
"The buses are grounded." Cael stepped closer, stopping just inches from her. "Let me drive you home. No games. No debts. Just a dry ride to your front door."
Nadia hesitated. She tapped her cane against the floor once, calculating her options. The heavy sound of rain beating against the high green room windows confirmed his words—the storm had worsened.
"Fine," she muttered. "But if your guards touch my cello again, I will use this cane on their shins."
A faint, rare smile touched Cael’s lips. "Understood."
They descended to the private underground parking bay via the executive elevator. The concrete garage was chilly and quiet, smelling of gasoline and damp concrete.
As the elevator doors opened, Cael’s posture instantly shifted. His hand shot out, catching Nadia’s shoulder and pulling her behind his broad frame.
"Dario," Cael snapped softly.
Three black sedans with dark windows were idling near the garage exit—blocking Cael’s armored SUV.
Four men stepped out of the sedans, their hands hidden inside heavy leather coats. At the center stood Vincent Morchetti, holding an unlit cigar between his teeth.
"Cael," Morchetti called out, his voice echoing loudly against the damp concrete walls. "You left the Chicago meeting early tonight. We still have to discuss the dock distribution routes."
"The docks are closed to you, Morchetti," Cael said, his voice dropping into a lethal, low rumble. "Get out of my garage."
Morchetti’s eyes flicked past Cael’s shoulder, landing directly on Nadia, who stood rigid, her fingers tightly gripping her cane.
"Is that the little songbird?" Morchetti sneered, taking a step forward. "She plays real pretty, Sanna. Maybe she can come down to Chicago and play at my daughter's wedding."
Before Morchetti could take another step, Cael drew a sleek, dark pistol from beneath his coat with terrifying, instantaneous speed, leveling the barrel straight between Morchetti’s eyes.
Behind Cael, Dario and three other guards drew their weapons in perfect, synchronized precision.
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The sound of four slide-mechanisms racking in unison echoed through the garage like thunder.
"Take one more step toward her, Morchetti," Cael whispered, his voice holding a cold, absolute certainty that made the air in the garage turn to ice. "And I will paint this concrete with your brain."
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