Chapter 3 - Into the Lion’s Den“I can’t just leave work,” I stammered, staring at the gold-stamped envelope resting on the bakery counter like a ticking bomb. “I have a shift until two o’clock, and—”
“Mr. Russo’s time is valuable, Miss Miller,” Victor interrupted, his tone chillingly polite yet utterly unyielding. “And so is yours, as I understand your financial situation requires immediate attention.”
My blood ran cold. How did they know about my finances? Of course—they were the Russos. They probably ran a background check on me before I even finished clearing Maria’s table.
“Fine,” I muttered, untying my flour-dusted apron with shaking hands. I looked over at Mrs. Gable, the elderly owner of the bakery, who was watching from the back kitchen with wide, terrified eyes. “Mrs. Gable, I’m so sorry... I have a family emergency.”
“Go, go, dear!” she whispered frantically, waving a wooden spoon at me.
Victor escorted me outside, where a sleek, black bulletproof Mercedes town car waited at the curb with its engine idling. The rear door clicked open automatically. Swallowing hard, I slid across the plush leather interior. The door clicked shut, sealing me inside a mobile fortress.
The ride took twenty minutes, driving deeper into an exclusive section of Brooklyn where sprawling gated estates sat hidden behind high stone walls and wrought-iron fences. The car finally slowed down, passing through massive security gates monitored by armed guards, before stopping in front of a sprawling, neo-classical stone mansion that looked more like a European palace than a mob boss's hideout.
Inside, the foyer was breathtaking—high marble ceilings, a sweeping grand staircase, priceless oil paintings, and polished floors that reflected the crystal chandelier overhead.
Victor led me down a wide hallway and stopped in front of a pair of heavy mahogany double doors. He knocked twice, pushed them open, and motioned for me to enter.
“Step inside, Sophie.”
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I stepped into a spacious, sunlit private study lined from floor to ceiling with dark wood bookshelves. A massive oak desk sat at the far end of the room, positioned before a wall of floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a meticulously manicured garden.
Standing by the window, holding a crystal tumbler of amber liquid, was Antonio Russo.
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