Chapter 3 - The Hostage in the Clinic
The silence that clamped down on the grand foyer of the Beacon Hill estate was so violent that Nora felt the air turn into liquid ice.
"My mother," Nora choked out, her hands darting out to grab Vincentâs forearms with desperate, white-knuckled strength.
She didn't care that he was the head of the Hale syndicate. She didn't care that five hundred armed men feared his name across New England. All she knew was the solid, terrifying warmth of the man who had pulled her out of the gunfire.
"Vincent, please! My mother can't walk without a frame! She gets terrified if the lights are too bright! If Julian takes her..."
"Nobody is taking your mother, Nora," Vincent said, his voice dropping into that terrifying, subterranean baseline that signaled an impending execution.
He didn't pull his arms away from her grip. Instead, his large palms came up, cupping both sides of her flushed, tear-stained face. His thumbs lightly stroked her cheekbones, anchoring her trembling spirit with absolute, unbreakable dominance:
"Look at me, Nora."
She swallowed hard, lifting her hazel eyes into his dark, slate-gray pupils.
"I have two tactical strike teams permanently stationed within four miles of the Quincy waterfront," Vincent spoke, each word measured and deliberate.
"The moment Sam flagged Julian's movements forty minutes ago, Directive Omega was initiated. The Quincy facility is not an ordinary clinic. The board of trustees that oversees that medical foundation... answers to me."
Nora blinked in dazed, breathless shock: "Answers to you...?"
"I bought the debt on that clinic five years ago, Nora," Vincent revealed, a faint, razor-sharp smirk touching the corner of his lips.
"I have watched you walk into that building every single Sunday afternoon carrying fresh carnations and blueberry muffins. I have watched you pay the cashier with five-dollar bills saved from your tips."
His eyes darkened with an ancient, possessive fire:
"Did you really believe that the most valuable heiress in the city of Boston was living three miles from my territory without my protection?"
Noraâs breath hitched in her throat. Her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird:
"You... you knew who I was?!"
"I knew who you were the night your mother signed the trust covenants in my father's office eighteen years ago," Vincent murmured softly, his thumb tracing the curve of her lower lip.
"I was nineteen years old. I stood behind my fatherâs chair and watched your grandfather swear that when the time came, the Hale family would bleed to ensure the Sterling bloodline survived."
Vincent turned his head toward Sam:
"Activate the perimeter containment at Quincy. Seal the medical pavilion. If Julian Sterling or any of his contractors steps onto the third floor... eliminate them."
"Understood, Boss," Sam barked, turning to sprint back toward the communications center.
"Wait!" Nora cried out, stepping away from Vincentâs hands, her chin lifting with that stubborn, working-class defiance that twenty-six years of survival had forged into her soul.
"I'm coming with you."
Vincent paused, looking down at her torn stockings, her stained black dress, and the fiery, unyielding courage blazing in her hazel eyes.
"Itâs an active combat zone, Nora," Vincent warned, his voice low and dangerous. "Men are going to die tonight."
"That is my mother in that bed, Vincent Hale!" Nora fired back, taking a step forward, poking him squarely in the chest once more:
"You don't get to fight my war while I sit in a velvet chair drinking tea! You want to protect the Sterling heir?! Then let me look the man who murdered my grandfather in the eye!"
For two long seconds, Vincent stared at her finger pressed against his shirt.
Then, a rich, low, and magnificent chuckle rumbled in his broad chestâa sound so unexpected, so breathtakingly handsome, that it knocked the air straight out of Noraâs lungs.
"You really don't know how to stay out of the fire, do you, Nora?" Vincent whispered.
He turned toward the grand staircase:
"Mrs. Gable! Bring Miss Bennett a Kevlar vest and my heavy wool trench coat."
May you like
Vincent unholstered his customized black-matte Sig Sauer P226 from the small of his back, checking the chamber with a sharp, concussive CLACK:
"Let's go introduce Julian Sterling to the family he tried to erase."
