Chapter 5 - The Glass Terrace
The ballroom felt suffocatingly warm after Adrian left.
Ethan sat across from me for another two minutes in silence, his eyes darting frantically toward the exit where Adrian had vanished, before he suddenly stood up without a word and hurried toward the bar, desperate for liquid courage.
I picked up my purse. My heart was pounding against my ribs. Adrian’s parting words echoed in my ears—*Do not leave this table*—but the look in Dante’s eyes had unnerved me. In the three years I had been with Adrian, I had learned to read the subtle shifts in his security detail. Dante didn't flinch for routine matters. If Dante looked grim, blood was already close to being spilled.
I stood up and walked toward the grand hallway, telling myself I just needed air.
The Grand Riverside Hotel was an architectural relic from the 1920s, filled with winding corridors, heavy velvet drapes, and soundproofed alcoves. I moved past the restrooms toward the western wing, where a set of French doors opened onto an enclosed glass terrace overlooking the river. The rain outside was coming down in violent sheets now, hammering against the glass like shrapnel.
I pushed the doors open, welcoming the cool, damp draft.
“Running away already, Claire?”
I spun around.
Ethan stood in the doorway, blocking the exit. He held a fresh glass of scotch, his tie loosened, the top button of his shirt undone. The fear that had paralyzed him ten minutes earlier had curdled into something ugly, desperate, and erratic. Alcohol had clearly met panic in his bloodstream, creating a toxic cocktail of wounded pride.
“Ethan,” I said, keeping my voice flat. “Get out of my way.”
“No,” he said, stepping onto the terrace and letting the heavy doors click shut behind him. The sound of the ballroom music died instantly, replaced only by the roar of the rain against the glass. “No, I don't think I will. We need to finish this conversation.”
“There is no conversation,” I replied, stepping back until my heels met the cold stone balustrade. “You said everything you needed to say five years ago. And Adrian said everything that needed to be said tonight.”
“Adrian,” Ethan spat, taking a long swallow from his glass before slamming it down on a nearby patio table with enough force to crack the base. “You think you’re so clever, don't you? You think you won. You married a butcher with a trust fund!”
I stared at him, keeping my hands steady inside my coat pockets. “You don't know anything about him.”
“I know what people say!” Ethan took two aggressive steps toward me, his face twisted in bitter resentment. “I know the Moretti name. He’s a criminal, Claire! He’s a thug in an eight-thousand-dollar suit. You think you’re safe with him? You think you’re special? Men like that don't love women like you. They collect things. He’s using you as a shield to look legitimate for city hall!”
The sheer absurdity of his desperation made me laugh—a short, sharp sound that hit Ethan like a slap.
“You really can’t fathom it, can you?” I said, looking him up and down. “You can’t accept that someone could see value in me that you were too shallow to recognize. You traded eight years of loyalty for a girl whose father had a seat on a country club board. And now, you’re drowning, and the only person who can throw you a life raft is the woman you threw away.”
Ethan’s eyes flared with rage. He lunged forward, closing the distance between us, his hand reaching out to grab my arm.
“Listen to me, you bitch—”
He never touched me.
A hand—massive, calloused, and moving with the speed of a striking viper—clamped around Ethan’s throat from behind.
Ethan let out a choked wheeze, his feet instantly leaving the marble floor as he was lifted six inches into the air and slammed violently against the reinforced glass wall of the terrace. The glass shuddered under the impact.
Adrian stood behind him.
He hadn't made a sound. His tailored jacket was gone; he wore only his charcoal vest and white dress shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, revealing the dark, intricate ink of family crests and Latin scripture running down his skin. His knuckles were slightly bruised, a faint smear of dark crimson staining the cuff of his right sleeve.
He had already dealt with whatever Dante had found outside.
And now, his eyes were burning with an absolute, terrifying madness.
“Adrian,” I whispered, my breath catching in my throat.
Adrian didn't look at me. His entire universe had narrowed to the pathetic, squirming man pinned against the glass. Adrian’s grip tightened, his fingers sinking deep into the sides of Ethan’s neck. Ethan clawed desperately at Adrian’s wrists, his face turning purple, his eyes bulging as his feet kicked uselessly at the air.
“I gave you an instruction, Carter,” Adrian whispered. The voice was so quiet, so deadly calm, that it made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. “I told you to consider what you wanted to say to my wife. I did not give you permission to follow her. And I certainly did not give you permission to raise your hand to her.”
“P-please…” Ethan managed to gasp out, saliva bubbling at the corner of his lips. “Please… Moretti…”
“You asked what kind of monster she married,” Adrian said, tilting his head slightly, studying Ethan’s terror with scientific detachment. “Allow me to show you.”
Adrian shifted his weight, his free hand reaching into his waistband, pulling free a suppressed, matte-black automatic. He didn't wave it around. He pressed the cold, steel barrel directly under Ethan’s chin, forcing Ethan’s head back against the glass.
“Adrian, stop!” I stepped forward, laying both hands firmly against Adrian’s chest.
I could feel the thunderous, violent beat of his heart beneath the silk of his vest. The muscle beneath my palms was hard as granite. He was an apex predator in the middle of a kill, running on pure instinct.
“Adrian,” I repeated, softening my voice, stepping into his line of sight so he was forced to look at me. “Look at me. Look at your wife.”
His gray eyes flicked down to mine. For a second, the darkness in them was so deep I could barely recognize him. But as his gaze held mine, the storm began to recede, held back by the invisible tether that had bound us together from the day we met.
“He isn't worth the blood on your shoes,” I said softly, my fingers sliding up to the lapel of his vest. “He’s already dead, Adrian. He just doesn't know it yet.”
Adrian held my gaze for three agonizing seconds. Then, slowly, the tension in his shoulders eased.
He turned back to Ethan.
With a sudden, dismissive jerk, Adrian released his grip.
Ethan crumpled to the stone floor in a pathetic, gasping heap, clutching his throat, coughing violently as he dragged air back into his burning lungs.
Adrian slid the weapon back into his waistband and reached into his pocket, pulling out a pristine white linen handkerchief. He meticulously wiped the blood from his cuff, then tossed the cloth onto Ethan’s lap.
“Clean yourself up,” Adrian commanded, his voice cold as a winter grave. “You have five minutes to return to that ballroom, take Miss Cole by the arm, and leave this city forever.”
Ethan looked up, tears of sheer terror streaming down his reddened face. “Leave… the city?”
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“If you are still in this state by sunrise,” Adrian whispered, leaning down so his face was inches from Ethan’s ear, “the pier project won't be the only thing that gets buried in concrete.”
***
