Chapter 3 - Severed Strings
“You can’t do that,” Marcus choked out, though his voice lacked any of its former venom. He looked desperately toward the valet, who had wisely stepped back into the shadows of the garage entrance upon recognizing the Moretti men. “She’s my fiancée. We live together. You can’t just abduct her on a public street!”
“Abduct?” Gabriel’s lip curled into a cold, humorless smile. He turned his head slightly toward his left shoulder. “Paulie. Explain the legal definition of abduction to the counselor.”
Paulie, a six-foot-four enforcer with a nose that had been broken three times and never set properly, stepped forward. He didn't say a word; he simply reached out with a massive, leather-gloved hand, gripped Marcus Thorne by the lapels of his three-thousand-dollar Tom Ford suit, and lifted him effortlessly onto his toes, shoving him hard against the brick wall of Abe & Louie’s.
Marcus let out a high-pitched gasp of terror as his Patek Philippe watch scraped against the masonry.
“Paulie prefers physical demonstrations,” Gabriel said dryly, turning his back entirely on the cowering lawyer to face Clara.
She was trembling violently, her knees shaking so hard she had to lean against the brass railing of the restaurant steps to stay upright. The world was spinning. She had spent three years believing Marcus was the most powerful, dangerous force in her universe—an omnipotent figure who controlled her mother’s bakery, her finances, and her physical safety. Seeing him dangling from the grip of a silent enforcer like a ragged doll shattered the illusion completely.
“Miss Hughes,” Gabriel said, his voice dropping into a gentle, rhythmic cadence that contrasted sharply with the violence happening three feet behind him. He removed his leather gloves, revealing strong, clean hands with faint, pale scars across the knuckles. “Look at me.”
Clara slowly raised her hazel eyes to meet his.
“You heard him,” she whispered, her voice cracking with shame and terror. “You heard what he said he was going to do to me.”
“I heard every word,” Gabriel replied, stepping close enough to shield her from the freezing drizzle that had begun to fall. He took off his heavy wool overcoat and draped it around her trembling shoulders. The coat was warm, smelling of cedarwood, clean rain, and expensive tobacco—a safe, heavy fortress against the cold. “And I am telling you right now, as God is my witness, that man will never lay another finger on you as long as you draw breath. But you have to make a choice.”
“A choice?”
“His car is right there,” Gabriel said, pointing toward the idling Porsche. “You can get into it, go back to your apartment, and hope his legal degree keeps him from fulfilling his promise. Or you can get into my car, which is pulling up right now, and let me keep you safe while we sort this out.”
A sleek, bulletproof black SUV—a customized Cadillac Escalade with tinted windows—glided smoothly to a stop at the curb. Elias Russo stepped out of the driver’s side, leaving the rear door open, his eyes scanning the street with professional, tactical precision.
Clara looked at the Porsche. She thought of the bedroom door in their Back Bay condo. She thought of the fingers squeezing her collarbone until the light faded from her eyes. She thought of the cold, sadistic promise: You won’t survive the night.
Then she looked at Gabriel Moretti. A crime boss. A man whose very name made the city’s elite tremble in their Italian loafers. Yet, as she looked into his dark, steady eyes, she saw no cruelty. She saw a fierce, ancient shield offering her sanctuary.
“My mother,” Clara gasped, sudden panic seizing her chest. “Marcus owns the building where my mother runs her bakery in South Boston. If I leave him, he’ll evict her tomorrow morning. He’ll destroy her life!”
Gabriel reached out, his warm, scarred fingers gently brushing a stray lock of damp hair away from her pale forehead. The touch was so tender it made a tear finally spill over her eyelashes.
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“Let me worry about the real estate, Clara,” Gabriel murmured softly. “Your only job tonight is to step into that truck.”
Clara didn't hesitate another second. She pulled Gabriel’s heavy wool coat tightly around her shoulders, stepped past the whimpering form of Marcus Thorne, and climbed into the back of the black Escalade.
