Chapter 3 - The Sanctuary of the Thirtieth Floor
The transition from the freezing dark to the blinding light was agony.
It wasn't a gentle awakening. It was the sensation of my skin being rubbed with coarse salt, a screaming, burning heat that started in my fingers and toes and traveled straight to the center of my chest. I gasped, my lungs expanding against a wall of pain, and realized I wasn't on the sidewalk anymore.
The ceiling was high, dark wood beams interspersed with cream plaster. The smell of pine garland was gone, replaced by the sharp, medicinal scent of rubbing alcohol and the deep, heavy aroma of old leather and woodsmoke.
"Don't move," a voice commanded.
It wasn't a request. It was the tone that moved millions of dollars across international borders with a single nod.
Dominic Moretti was sitting on the edge of a massive leather sofa, his tuxedo jacket gone, his white silk shirt unbuttoned at the collar and rolled up to his forearms. His face was pale, his dark hair damp from the snow that had melted into it, and his eyes—usually the color of polished flint—were shot through with red veins. He was holding my hands between his own, rubbing them with a rough, rhythmic pressure that felt like fire.
"Sir," I croaked, my throat so dry the word felt like sandpaper.
"Shut up, Emma," he muttered, his jaw working as he ground his teeth together. He didn't look up at me; he stayed focused on my fingers, checking the nails, which had turned from blue back to a dark, bruised pink. "If you speak right now, I might lose my mind completely, and I need my head clear for what I’m about to do."
I looked around the room. We were in his private quarters on the thirtieth floor—the sanctuary no one from the administrative staff was ever permitted to see. A massive stone fireplace was crackling with birch logs, the heat radiating across the Persian carpets. On a small table nearby sat a silver tray with hot broth, a bottle of brandy, and a pile of thick, white blankets that had been warmed by the hearth.
Dr. Harrison, the family physician who usually only appeared when someone had been shot or broken, was standing near the window, his medical bag open on a chair. He was looking at a thermometer with a grim expression.
"Her core temperature is up to ninety-five, Dominic," the doctor said softly, packing his stethoscope away. "She’s out of the danger zone for systemic failure, but those feet need to stay elevated, and she doesn't go near the cold for at least a week. The frostbite on the left heel is superficial, but it’s going to peel like a sunburn."
"Get out, Harrison," Dominic said, his voice dropping into that quiet, terrifying frequency that signaled the end of a conversation. "Tell the men outside the door that if anyone logs a call to my brother’s house tonight, they don't live to see the sunrise."
The doctor didn't argue. He picked up his bag, gave me a brief, sympathetic look, and slipped through the heavy double doors, leaving the room entirely silent save for the popping of the pine knots in the fire.
Dominic finally let go of my hands. He stood up, his tall frame blocking the light from the fireplace, and walked over to the small table. He poured a shot of brandy into a small crystal glass and brought it over to me, his hand steady but his expression completely ruined by a dark, simmering rage.
"Drink it," he said.
I took the glass, my fingers trembling so badly the crystal chattered against my teeth. The liquor burned my throat, but it sent a sudden, explosive heat through my stomach that made my head clear.
"What happened at the front door, Emma?" he asked. He sat back down on the edge of the sofa, leaning forward until his face was only inches from mine. I could see the small silver flecks in his gray eyes, the tight line of his jaw, the tiny nick near his chin where he’d shaved too quickly before the party. "My security team tells me you walked out at 11:30. They said you refused a car. They said you were acting erratic."
I stared at him, the brandy clearing the fog from my mind just enough for the anger to take hold. "Your security team lied to you, sir."
Dominic’s eyes narrowed into two slivers of gray stone. "Explain."
"Two men I’ve never seen before were at the desk," I said, my voice gaining strength as the heat returned to my limbs. "They said they had orders from the family. From Gianni. They took my security badge, they snapped the lanyard off my neck, and they told me the elevators and the garage were restricted. They told me to use the front door and never come back."
Dominic didn't move a muscle. He didn't swear. He didn't slam his fist into the table. But the air in the room grew instantly heavier, the temperature dropping as if the window had been left open to the storm outside.
"Gianni," he repeated, the name sounding like an execution order.
"Yes, sir," I whispered. "I... I thought you had fired me. I thought the manifests were wrong, or that I had made a mistake with the customs filings."
Dominic reached out, his long fingers gently touching the red, bruised line where the lanyard had snapped against my skin. His touch was remarkably soft, almost hesitant, a stark contrast to the violence that seemed to radiate from his shoulders. "You have never made a mistake in two years, Emma. You know more about my operations than my own blood does. That’s exactly why they wanted you dead in a snowdrift."
He stood up, walking over to the desk in the corner of the room, and picked up his private phone—the one that didn't go through the building switchboard. He dialed three digits.
"DeLuca," Dominic said into the receiver. "Bring my brother down to the thirtieth floor lounge. Don't tell him why. If he asks, tell him we’re opening the nineteen-twenty brandy to celebrate the Blackwell merger. And Marco? Bring the iron from the basement."
He hung up before Marco could answer. He turned back to me, his face completely expressionless now—the mask was back, but behind it, the fire was burning out of control.
"You're going to stay right here, Emma," he said, walking over to the wardrobe and pulling out a heavy, black silk robe. He tossed it onto the foot of the bed. "Change out of those wet clothes. The door is locked from the inside. No one enters this room but me."
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"Sir," I said, reaching for the blankets as a sudden shiver wracked my body. "What are you going to do?"
Dominic paused at the door, his hand on the brass handle. He didn't look back at me, but his profile against the hallway light looked like something carved out of the side of a mountain. "I'm going to remind my family who owns this city, Emma. And then I’m going to find out what else they’ve been hiding from me while I was busy looking at the ledger."
