Chapter 2 - The Fortress on the HudsonThe Russo estate sat on a jagged cliff overlooking the Hudson River, surrounded by wrought-iron fences, motion-sensing cameras, and a perimeter patrolled by men who looked like they ate raw nails for breakfast.
When the SUV rolled through the massive iron gates, Beatrice felt a cold dread settle deep into her bones. The house itself—a sprawling limestone mansion built in the Gilded Age—exuded an oppressive, aristocratic gloom. There were no bright colors, no welcoming flowerbeds, just manicured lawns, towering oak trees, and the constant, low murmur of armed guards communicating through hidden earpieces.
“Welcome to your temporary home,” Adrian said as the car came to a halt beneath the grand portico.
He stepped out first, offering a hand to help her down. Beatrice ignored his hand, sliding across the leather seat and hopping down onto the gravel herself, nearly tripping over her worn boots.
“I want to call my grandmother,” she said, her chin jutting out defiantly as she faced him on the stone steps. “She gets confused if I don't call her by ten in the morning. If she thinks I’ve abandoned her, she’ll panic.”
Adrian paused, his hand resting on the heavy brass handle of the front door. For a brief second, something resembling human empathy softened his hard gray eyes.
“Dante is already handling it,” Adrian said quietly. “We’ve arranged a secure phone line to Lakeshore Senior Residence. A private nurse has been dispatched to check in on her under the guise of a routine wellness check, and she will be given a secure mobile phone so you can speak to her whenever you wish. No one will touch her, Beatrice. My enemies don't know who you are yet, but they will soon enough. Until I neutralize the threat, anyone you love is safer under my roof than anywhere else in this city.”
Beatrice wanted to argue. She wanted to scream, to hit him, to demand to be put back on a public bus. But the memory of the three gunshots cracking through the rain outside Russo Tower was still too fresh in her mind.
She swallowed hard and nodded. “Fine.”
The interior of the mansion was even more intimidating than its exterior. High vaulted ceilings, dark mahogany wainscoting, and priceless oil paintings of stern-faced ancestors lined the grand hallway. A housekeeper in a severe black uniform met them at the foot of the sweeping staircase.
“Mrs. Gable,” Adrian instructed the older woman. “Prepare the east wing suite for Miss Gallagher. Get her clothes—new ones—and have a doctor come up to check her for shock.”
“I don't need a doctor, and I don't need new clothes,” Beatrice snapped, crossing her arms over her chest. “I need my life back.”
“You’ll get your life back,” Adrian said, turning to face her directly, towering over her by nearly a foot. “Once I find out who gave the order to fire on my building this morning. Until then, you are my guest. And you are safe.”
Without waiting for a reply, he turned and strode down the hall toward a set of heavy double doors marked with a brass nameplate: STUDY.
Mrs. Gable gave Beatrice a sympathetic, albeit tight-lipped smile. “Right this way, miss. Let’s get you out of those damp shoes.”
The east wing suite was larger than Beatrice’s entire apartment. It featured a king-sized bed draped in heavy velvet, a marble fireplace with a crackling fire already going, and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the grey, churning waters of the river.
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True to his word, within an hour, a discreet personal shopper arrived with racks of designer clothes, while a gentle female physician checked Beatrice’s blood pressure, pronounced her physically healthy despite the stress, and left a mild sedative that Beatrice immediately poured down the bathroom sink.
She wasn't going to sleep. Not here. Not while the man who owned this fortress was waging a shadow war downstairs.
