Chapter 8 - The Shadow of Albania
Two weeks passed in a strange, luxurious rhythm. Elena moved into the Riverdale townhome, a beautiful brick structure surrounded by ancient oak trees and monitored twenty-four hours a day by a quiet security detail led by Frank. Sonia thrived in her new school, her wild curls bouncing as she ran across the private playground, completely unaware of the dark world that had almost swallowed her whole.
Elena completed her nursing exams, sitting in the secure study of her new home while two of Marco’s men stood guard at the front gate. She scored the highest marks in her class—a achievement that she celebrated not with champagne, but with a quiet cup of tea on her porch, watching the winter snow begin to dust the grass.
But the peace was shattered on a Tuesday evening in early December.
Elena was leaving the hospital where she was completing her clinical rotations when a dark van pulled up to the curb, its side doors sliding open with a terrifyingly familiar mechanical hiss. Two men in heavy leather jackets stepped out, their faces obscured by caps, their hands buried deep in their pockets.
Before they could reach her, a silver sedan slammed into the front bumper of the van, the crunch of metal echoing through the empty parking lot.
Frank stepped out of the sedan, a heavy iron crowbar clutched in his right hand, his face a mask of pure, military rage. Behind him, three other vehicles bearing the Valentine insignia blocked the exit of the lot.
The two men from the van froze, realizing they had been led into a flawless, pre-meditated ambush.
Marco Valentine stepped out from the back seat of the lead vehicle. He didn't carry a weapon this time. He walked slowly toward the two men, his hands buried in the pockets of a long wool overcoat.
“You’re a long way from Tirana, gentlemen,” Marco said, his voice dropping into that quiet, terrifyingly calm register that made the air feel twenty degrees colder. “Did Thomas Brennan tell you that Manhattan was open for business? Because Thomas Brennan is currently at the bottom of the East River, and his logistics lines belong to me.”
The lead assassin, a hardened veteran with a jagged scar across his throat, spat on the asphalt. “The contract was signed, Valentine. The waitress broke the line. Our honor demands the blood of the witness.”
“Your honor belongs to the grave,” Marco said smoothly. He waved a single finger.
Within seconds, twenty heavily armed security personnel swarmed the parking lot, disarming the two men and pinning them to the hood of the van before they could even draw their weapons.
Marco turned his back on them, walking directly toward Elena, who was standing near the hospital entrance, her breath misting in the freezing air. He stopped two feet away, looking down at her with an expression that had slowly begun to shift over the past weeks—losing the calculated distance of a boss and gaining the soft warmth of a man who was genuinely captivated.
“Are you hurt?” he asked.
May you like
“No,” Elena whispered, her heart hammering, but not from fear of the assassins. It was from the way Marco was looking at her—as if she were the only thing in the entire city that mattered. “You knew they were coming.”
“I’ve been tracking their flights since they left London,” Marco said, reaching out to gently brush a stray lock of dark hair from her forehead. His fingers were warm against her cold skin. “I told you, Elena. Every man who looks at you with malice will find out why I own this city. The Albanian cartel just agreed to a total withdrawal from the Eastern Seaboard. You are completely safe. The contract is dead.”
