Chapter 5 - Blood on the Workshop Floor
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The first thing I felt was the sound.
Glass exploding inward. Metal striking the wall. The sharp crack of a gunshot that seemed to split the apartment in two.
I dropped behind the workbench, clutching the bracelet in my fist.
“Claire!” Vincent shouted through the phone.
“I’m here.”
“Stay down. Do not move toward the windows.”
Another shot struck the outer wall.
My ears rang. A thin line of blood ran down my palm where the bracelet's sharp clasp had cut into my skin.
I crawled toward the hallway.
“Where's Noah?” Vincent demanded.
“At preschool.”
“Good. Stay where you are. Gabriel is coming.”
I hated the relief I felt at hearing his voice.
I hated even more that I needed it.
The front door burst open less than a minute later. Two men entered wearing dark jackets, their hands raised to show they carried no weapons.
“Miss Pell?”
“Who are you?”
“Gabriel. Mr. Moretti sent us.”
I had never met him, but I recognized his face from photographs in the business pages. He was Vincent's head of security, a former military officer who spoke rarely and watched everything.
“Is the shooter gone?” I asked.
“We believe so. We need to move you to a secure location.”
“No.”
His expression remained neutral.
“Miss Pell, someone just fired through your window.”
“I have a son. I'm not disappearing without arranging for him.”
“Your son is safe. Mr. Moretti has already sent another team to his preschool.”
I stood up too quickly. Pain shot through my wrist and shoulder.
“Did he tell them to take Noah?”
Gabriel hesitated.
“No. They're securing the building and making sure no one approaches him.”
“Then I want to speak to his school myself.”
He handed me his phone.
Vincent answered immediately.
“Noah is safe,” he said. “I spoke to his teacher. Nobody is taking him anywhere.”
“You sent men to his school.”
“To protect him.”
“You should have asked me.”
“I know.”
The words were so unexpected that I almost forgot to be angry.
Vincent continued, “I should have called you first. I didn't. I'm sorry.”
I closed my eyes.
“I'm going to the police.”
“We can do that. But we need to be careful. If the people who sent that message are connected to the old records, they may have influence inside the department.”
“That's convenient.”
“It's also possible.”
I looked at the broken window.
“Then we find an investigator who isn't connected to your family.”
“Agreed.”
Gabriel led me downstairs through the service corridor. I carried the bracelet and my mother's letter inside my coat. Outside, a black SUV waited at the curb.
I refused to get in until I had spoken to Noah's teacher and confirmed that Daniel would collect him as usual.
Only then did I allow Gabriel to drive me to a private residence on the north side.
It was not Vincent's penthouse.
It was a quiet house with reinforced doors, a small garden, and a security room hidden behind the kitchen. Vincent arrived twenty minutes later, his face pale with controlled fury.
“Did you see the shooter?” he asked.
“No.”
“Did you hear a vehicle?”
“No.”
“Did you recognize anyone near the building?”
“Vincent, I'm a jewelry designer. I don't spend my days identifying armed men.”
He stopped.
“Right. I'm sorry.”
The apology sounded unfamiliar in his mouth.
He looked at my injured hand.
“You're bleeding.”
“It's a scratch.”
“Let me see.”
I held out my palm, but when he reached for it, I pulled back.
He froze.
“I won't touch you unless you want me to.”
For a moment, neither of us moved.
Then I let him take my hand.
He cleaned the cut with supplies from a first-aid kit while Gabriel examined the bullet holes. Vincent's fingers were careful, almost painfully so.
“You used to do this when I burned myself cooking,” I said before I could stop myself.
His eyes lifted.
“You used to insist the kitchen was safer than the dining room because nobody could interrupt us there.”
“You always burned the garlic.”
“I was distracted.”
“By what?”
He looked at me.
“You.”
I withdrew my hand before the memory could become something dangerous.
“Don't.”
He set the bandage aside.
“I know.”
Gabriel entered the room carrying a small evidence bag.
“We recovered something from the street.”
Inside lay a brass casing and a folded note.
I opened the note.
Stop digging. The next warning will not miss.
Vincent's face became frighteningly still.
“Get me every camera recording within six blocks,” he told Gabriel. “Traffic cameras, private businesses, parking garages. Everything.”
I took the note from his hand.
“Don't turn this into a private war.”
He looked at me.
“They shot at you.”
“And if you respond with violence, you'll make it easier for them to hide what they did. We need evidence, not revenge.”
For a moment, I thought he would refuse.
Then he nodded.
“Evidence first.”
It was a small concession, but it mattered.
I placed the bracelet on the table and explained the hidden message. Vincent studied the names and dates without speaking.
When I finished, he looked up.
“Victor Sloane.”
“You know him?”
“He owns a collection of shipping companies, private security firms, and investment funds. Publicly, he's legitimate. Privately, he's been trying to absorb my family's business interests for years.”
“And Elias?”
“Elias handled financial matters for both our families.”
I tapped the third name.
“Your name is here, too.”
Vincent's jaw tightened.
“I know.”
“Then I need to understand why.”
Before he could answer, Gabriel returned with a tablet.
“We have footage from a camera across the street.”
He placed it on the table.
The recording showed a dark sedan parked near my apartment. A man stepped out, raised a weapon, and fired toward my workshop window.
His face was hidden beneath a cap.
But his left hand was visible.
A thick gold ring encircled his little finger, stamped with the shape of a falcon.
Vincent stared at it.
Then all the color drained from his face.
“I know that ring.”
“Whose is it?” I asked.
He swallowed.
“Luca Moretti.”
His cousin. His closest adviser. The man who had stood beside Vincent through every crisis for fifteen years.
The man Vincent trusted with his life.
Vincent watched the recording again.
May you like
Then he said something I had never heard him say about anyone.
“God help me.”
