Chapter 2 - The Rules of the Fortress
Adrian’s fingers tapped once against the mahogany surface of his desk. It was a rhythmic, calculated sound, like the ticking of a clock counting down the seconds before an explosion.
“The agency didn’t send you because you were qualified,” Adrian said, his voice flat and devoid of warmth. “They sent you because they ran out of names on their roster. Every other applicant within a hundred-mile radius has either been hospitalized, blacklisted, or threatened to sue. You were the bottom of the barrel. Desperate enough to answer the ad.”
Claire didn’t blink. She kept her posture straight, refusing to let him see how accurately he had hit the target. Desperation was a heavy cloak, but she had worn it long enough to know how to walk in it without tripping.
“Desperate is a strong word, Mr. Moretti,” Claire replied, her voice steady despite the damp chill seeping through her blouse. “I prefer to think of myself as highly motivated.”
Adrian’s gaze narrowed slightly, analyzing her response. He was a man who lived by reading people, assessing leverage, and calculating risk. For years, people had either cowered in his presence or tried to manipulate him. Claire Donovan did neither. She stood there dripping on his Persian rug, looking him dead in the eye with a quiet, stubborn resilience that didn’t compute in his tactical world.
“Motivation doesn’t change reality,” Adrian said, standing up from his chair. He was towering, easily six-foot-two, and he moved with the dangerous grace of a predator who didn’t need to rush. He walked around the desk, stopping just a few feet away from her. The proximity only emphasized the sheer intimidation factor he projected. “Here are the rules of this house. Rule one: You do not enter the West Wing after eight o’clock. Rule two: You do not ask questions about my business, my associates, or my past. Rule three: You do not discipline my sons with physical punishment or screaming. If you break any of these rules, the front gates open, and you walk out with nothing.”
Claire looked up at him, her chin lifting defiantly. “And what are the rules for you, Mr. Moretti?”
Adrian paused, a flicker of genuine surprise crossing his dark eyes. No one—absolutely no one—spoke to him that way.
“Excuse me?” he asked, his tone dropping an octave into a low, warning rumble.
“You have a list of rules for me,” Claire said evenly. “It’s only fair that I know what I can expect from you. Do you yell? Do you throw things? Or do you just stand in corners looking menacing while your children drop water balloons on unsuspecting women?”
A heavy silence descended upon the office. The air grew thick, charged with the kind of tension that usually preceded a violent outburst or a swift firing. The housekeeper, who had hovered nervously near the doorway, suddenly found the crown molding extremely fascinating and took a step back into the corridor.
Adrian stared at her. For a long, agonizing moment, neither of them moved. Then, the corner of Adrian’s mouth twitched—not into a smile, but into something resembling grim amusement.
“I don’t yell, Miss Donovan,” Adrian said softly, stepping even closer so that she could smell the subtle scent of cedar and expensive cologne. “I eliminate variables. Make sure you aren’t one of them.”
With that, he turned on his heel and walked out of the office, leaving Claire alone in the suffocating quiet of the room.
Claire let out a long, shaky breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. Her heart was hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. Twenty thousand dollars, she reminded herself fiercely. Save the apartment. Keep Lily safe. You can handle a grumpy mobster and three little hellions.
She turned and left the office, finding Mrs. Gable, the kind-faced housekeeper who had witnessed her baptism by water, waiting in the hallway with a dry towel and a warm mug of tea.
“Oh, you poor thing,” Mrs. Gable whispered, bustling forward and wrapping the fluffy towel around Claire’s shoulders. “You gave him quite a start, you know. Nobody talks to Mr. Moretti like that. Not even his business partners.”
“He started it,” Claire muttered, accepting the mug gratefully. “Where are the boys?”
Mrs. Gable’s face fell into a grimace of deep dread. “Upstairs in the playroom. Third door on the left. Good luck, child. You’re going to need a miracle.”
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Claire didn’t believe in miracles. She believed in persistence, patience, and a healthy dose of stubbornness. Taking a fortifying sip of the tea, she set the mug down on a nearby console table, adjusted the towel around her shoulders, and marched straight toward the grand staircase.
It was time to meet the triplets.
