Chapter 4
The interior of Gabriel’s armored limousine was a stark contrast to the brilliant golden hues of the ballroom. Here, in the shadows of tinted glass and black leather, the city lights blurred into streaks of silver and red as the heavy vehicle tore through the rain-slicked streets. Gabriel sat across from Martha and Rose, pouring a glass of aged whiskey from the console. He didn't drink it. He handed it gently to Martha.
"Drink," he instructed softly. "It will warm you."
Martha took the glass with trembling hands, taking a small, coughing sip. Rose sat quietly beside her, still wearing her waitress apron over her dress, her hands folded neatly in her lap. Gabriel’s sharp eyes shifted to the young woman.
"You should have stayed at the hotel," Gabriel said, his voice entirely devoid of its earlier venom, yet still thick with an intimidating weight. "You just walked out on your job for a woman you don't know."
Rose met his gaze, her posture impeccable. "I know cruelty when I see it, Mr. Mercer. And I know the South District. My brother used to run with a crew down there. If those kids are locked in the old textile warehouse, they’re in gang territory. They won't survive the night alone."
Gabriel’s eyes narrowed slightly, a spark of genuine respect flickering in the dark. He reached up, adjusting his cuffs, the sharp, negative-space tattoos on his hands shifting under the dim cabin lights. "What is your name?"
"Rose Bennett," she answered evenly.
"Well, Miss Bennett, consider yourself newly employed." Gabriel tapped the glass partition separating them from the driver. "Step on it, Marcus. And call the boys. Tell them to converge on the South District textile warehouse. Heavy."
As the driver relayed the orders over an encrypted radio, Gabriel leaned back into the leather. The slow, rhythmic thrumming of the tires over wet asphalt matched the cold, calculating gears turning in his head. The children’s home wasn't just a charity project; it was his sanctuary, the only place in his brutal life that remained pure. He had protected it with millions of dollars in anonymous donations. For Serena to sell it, she would have had to bypass layers of legal protection and forge his signature.
"She didn't just close it, Gabriel," Martha whispered, clutching the empty whiskey glass. "Men came in the middle of the night. Men with guns. They didn't look like city officials. They threw the children into the back of freight trucks."
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Gabriel’s blood ran cold. The tattoos on his neck throbbed against his collar. Men with guns. This was not a real estate transaction. This was a hostile takeover.
"They won't hurt them, Martha," Gabriel said, his voice dropping into a deadly, slow cadence. "Because whoever took them is already dead."
