Chapter 7
Elena hesitated for a fraction of a second, her expressive eyes darting from Silvio's armed men to the back of Adrian's head. The protective instinct that had driven her to slap Victor roared in her chest, demanding she stay and shield him. But the calm, absolute authority in Adrian's voice brooked no argument.
"As you wish, Mr. Moretti," Elena replied. She released the rubber handles of the wheelchair and took three measured steps backward, smoothing her white apron, ensuring she was clear of the immediate line of fire.
Silvio laughed, a harsh, grating sound that bounced off the mahogany walls. "Sending the help away, Adrian? Very noble. But it won't save you. You walked right into a cage."
"Did I walk into a cage, Silvio, or did I simply lock the door behind you?" Adrian asked.
Before Silvio could process the strange phrasing of the question, Adrian’s uninjured hand blurred into motion. From the inner pocket of his tailored dark suit, he drew a suppressed, matte-black pistol. Despite his seated position and the sling binding his right arm, his left-handed aim was flawless, the result of years of brutal survival.
He didn't point the weapon at Silvio. He aimed it directly at the heavy oak doors they had just entered through.
"Carlo," Adrian called out, his voice raising just enough to carry into the main dining hall. "Are the exits secured?"
"Locked and guarded, Boss," Carlo’s rough voice echoed back from the hallway.
Silvio’s arrogant smile vanished instantly. He looked toward the doors, realizing that the silence in the dining room wasn't born of fear of Victor, but of absolute, unwavering loyalty to Adrian. The men outside weren't fleeing; they were waiting for their orders.
"You think a few loyal dogs outside can stop us from killing you right here?" Silvio snarled, gesturing to his two enforcers.
The men reached for their weapons, but Adrian’s pistol swung back, centering perfectly on Silvio’s chest. The artistic tattoos on Adrian's hand were stark against the dark metal of the gun.
"Do you believe your men can draw their weapons faster than I can pull this trigger?" Adrian asked, his deep voice dropping to a terrifying, deadly whisper. "Will you gamble your life on their reflexes?"
The two enforcers froze, their hands hovering over their holsters. They looked at Silvio, waiting for the command, but the northern boss was perfectly still, a bead of sweat tracing down his temple.
"You pull that trigger, and my family will burn this city to the ground," Silvio threatened, though his voice had lost its confident edge.
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"Will they burn the city, Silvio, or will they simply absorb your territory once they realize you died making a foolish mistake?" Adrian inquired, his cold, observant eyes piercing through his rival's bravado.
Elena watched from the shadows, her breath caught in her throat. The man in the wheelchair was not weak. He was a king, commanding his empire with nothing more than his intellect, his presence, and a single gun. The sheer, masculine power radiating from him was intoxicating.
