ALLEN
Lorenzo's hand felt like a shackle around my wrist, but I didn't care about the rules of engagement anymore. I twisted my arm, breaking his grip with a sharp, calculated snap of my elbow.
"If a single hair on her head is touched, Lorenzo, I won't just ruin your company," I hissed, leaning over the table until the old man's eyes widened with genuine fear. "I'll make sure the Moretti name is erased from every ledger in the civilized world."
I didn't wait for his response. I sprinted out of the club, my heart a frantic drumbeat against my ribs.
I jumped into the car and tore toward Chelsea. The rain had started—a cold, biting New York drizzle that blurred the neon lights into streaks of red and blue. Red and blue. Like the police sirens I knew were already converging on the loft.
"Pick up, Celeste. Pick up!" I snarled at my dashboard.
The call went straight to voicemail. The lead lining in the walls. The very thing I had built to protect her was now the thing cutting off her lifeline. I had trapped her in a beautiful, high-tech cage.
I swung the car onto the sidewalk two blocks away, abandoned it with the engine still running, and ran.
CELESTE
The silence of the loft was broken by a sound that made my skin crawl: the heavy, rhythmic thud of the service elevator.
It wasn't the private lift Allen had used. It was the one in the back.
I stood in the center of the dark living room, clutching Gabriel to my chest. He was awake now, his large blue eyes reflecting the blinking red light of the security system.
"Mama? Loud noises," he whispered, his lip trembling.
"I know, baby. We're going to play a game of 'Quiet Mouse,' okay?"
I looked at the security monitors. Four men in tactical gear were entering the lobby. They weren't wearing NYPD patches. They were private security—the kind my father used when he wanted a job done "off the books."
Then, my phone buzzed. Not a call, but a forced push notification.
An image appeared on the screen. It was a warrant, pre-signed and digital. Subject: Celeste Lawson. Charge: Industrial Espionage and Child Endangerment.
They weren't here to arrest me. They were here to take Gabriel and make sure I disappeared into a system I couldn't fight.
Allen, where are you?
The front door chimed. "Ms. Lawson? This is Agent Thorne's security detail. Open the door. We have a court order for the child."
Anastasia. She wasn't even hiding behind the law anymore. She was using my father's power to stage a kidnapping under the guise of an arrest.
I looked at the ballistic glass windows. They were unbreakable from the outside, but there was a manual release for the emergency fire escape. It was a forty-foot drop to the alleyway.
"Okay, Gabe," I whispered, my voice breaking. "Hold onto Mama's neck. Tight."
ALLEN
I reached the alleyway just as the first tactical team breached the front lobby. I could hear the shouting from the street.
I looked up. The Chelsea loft was five stories up. And there, on the narrow iron slats of the fire escape, was a flash of white.
Celeste.
She was climbing down, Gabriel strapped to her chest with a makeshift sling. The rain made the iron slick, and the wind was whipping her hair across her face.
"Celeste!" I yelled, but my voice was swallowed by the roar of the city and the sirens approaching from the north.
Suddenly, the window she had just exited shattered. A man stepped onto the fire escape above her. He reached down, his hand grabbing for her shoulder.
"No!" I roared.
I didn't have a weapon. I had something better. I had the override codes for the building's smart-grid. I pulled out my phone, my fingers flying over the screen. I didn't target the locks. I targeted the fire suppression system.
Click.
Above her, the high-pressure halogen sprinklers erupted. The force of the water hit the pursuer square in the face, knocking him backward into the loft.
"Celeste! Jump!" I shouted, reaching the base of the ladder.
She looked down, her face a mask of pure, primal terror. She was ten feet up.
"I have you!" I screamed. "Trust me!"
She didn't hesitate. She stepped off the iron rail and fell into the dark.
The impact nearly broke my collarbone, but I didn't let go. I caught them, rolling onto the wet pavement to absorb the shock. Gabriel let out a sharp cry of surprise, but Celeste was already scrambling to her feet, her hands checking him for injuries.
"He's okay," she gasped, her breath hitching. "Allen, they're right behind us."
"Not for long," I said, pulling her toward the shadows.
A black SUV screeched into the alley, blocking our path. The door opened.
I braced for a fight, but a familiar, dry voice cut through the rain.
"Get in the car, you idiots. You're making a scene."
Sloane Vance.
We piled into the back seat just as the tactical team reached the alley. Sloane didn't wait for the doors to click; she floored it, the tires smoking as we fishtailed onto the main road.
"You're popular," Sloane said, glancing at the rearview mirror as three sets of headlights swung out to follow us. "The Lawsons, the Crosses, and now the feds. You really know how to pick a fight, Allen."
"They framed her, Sloane," I said, my hand finding Celeste's in the dark. She was shivering, her clothes soaked through. "They're calling her a spy."
"I know," Sloane said, her face becoming unusually grim. "And that's not the worst part. Look at the news."
She handed me her tablet.
The headline wasn't about the espionage. It was about the "Death" of a billionaire.
BREAKING: Doncan Cross Hospitalized After Alleged Assault. Son, Allen Cross, Named Primary Suspect.
I stared at the screen. My father wasn't dead, but he was in a coma. And the "witness" who had called it in?
Elena Moretti.