Chapter 5 - The Gathering Storm
The penthouse suite became a command center by midnight.
Maps of downtown Seattle were projected onto a digital tactical display across the living room wall, glowing with blue and red markers representing security checkpoints, safe houses, and known Valenti operatives. Armed men in tactical gear moved quietly through the corridors, checking communications arrays and arming assault rifles with practiced, silent efficiency.
In the master guest suite down the hall, Hazel and Iris were finally asleep, exhausted from the whirlwind events of the past thirty-six hours. A pair of elite female operatives stood guard outside their bedroom door, armed with suppressed submachine guns and trained to neutralize any threat before it could even reach the threshold.
Sloan stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows of the main living area, staring out at the rain washing down the exterior glass. Her reflection stared back at her—pale, haunted, and trapped.
Footsteps approached from behind, heavy and measured. Griffin walked up beside her, holding two cups of black coffee. He extended one toward her.
Sloan took it without looking at him, wrapping her cold fingers around the warm ceramic mug.
"They're sleeping," Sloan said softly.
"Viktor’s detail has the entire floor locked down," Griffin replied, staring out at the city lights. "Not a fly gets in or out without my authorization."
"You're planning to use them as bait, aren't you?"
Sloan turned her head sharply to look at him, her eyes burning with sudden suspicion. "Marco Valenti wants you. He wants to hit you through your family. You're going to let his hit squad make a move on the convoy tomorrow so you can trap them, aren't you?"
Griffin didn't look away from the window. His silence was all the confirmation Sloan needed.
"Are you insane?!" Sloan slammed her coffee mug down on the marble counter, the liquid sloshing over the rim. "They are eight years old! You cannot use my daughters as bait in a mafia turf war!"
"Keep your voice down," Griffin warned, his jaw clenching as he finally turned to face her, his eyes flashing with a dangerous dark fire. "Do you think for one second I would put a single hair on my daughters' heads in danger? The convoy tomorrow morning is a ghost ship. It’s a decoy."
Sloan blinked, taken aback. "A decoy?"
"Marco Valenti thinks he's hunting a target in broad daylight," Griffin explained, his voice dropping into a cold, tactical rhythm. "The armored Escalades will leave the tower tomorrow at 8:00 AM carrying decoy personnel. Every single sniper, operative, and enforcer Valenti has deployed will position themselves along that route." Griffin stepped closer, his voice dropping to a low, intense hum. "And while Valenti's men are busy ambushing an empty convoy, my strike team will kick down the doors of Valenti’s primary safehouse on the docks and drag him out by his throat."
Sloan stared at him, stunned by the sheer ruthlessness and precision of the plan. "And what about us? What about me and the girls?"
"You stay right here," Griffin said, his tone absolute. "In this penthouse. With a three-tier security detail. By noon tomorrow, Marco Valenti will be begging for a bullet, and this war will be over."
Sloan crossed her arms over her chest, shivering despite the warmth of the penthouse. "And if your plan fails? If Valenti's men figure out it's a decoy and double back here?"
May you like
Griffin reached out, his large hand gripping her shoulder with a firm, immovable pressure that sent a strange, electric warmth straight through her veins.
"It won't fail," Griffin said, his voice carrying the terrifying weight of absolute certainty. "Because nothing on this earth will ever touch my daughters. And nothing will ever touch you again."
