Chapter 6 - The Shadows of Callaway Tower
Isla didn't scream. Her maternal instincts took over, bypassing fear and moving straight into survival. She rushed to the portable crib, scooped Noah into her arms, and backed into the small utility closet off the kitchen. She pulled the heavy door shut just as the front door of the apartment groaned open.
Heavy footsteps echoed across the hardwood floor.
"Find the bag," a raspy voice whispered in the dark. "And find the girl. Callum said she’d be here."
"The penthouse elevator is locked down, but this floor is open," another voice replied. "Hurry up before the guard downstairs notices the secondary power grid is tripped."
Isla held her breath, her hand pressed gently over Noah’s mouth, praying her son wouldn't wake or cry. Through the slats of the utility closet door, she saw the beams of two flashlights sweeping across the living room. The men were wearing dark tactical gear, masks covering their faces. They weren't common thieves; they were professionals.
One of the flashlights moved toward the kitchen.
The beam passed over the glass coffee table, catching the silver Mylar blanket she had left there.
"She’s here," the first man said, his footsteps drawing closer to the utility closet. "The blanket’s still warm."
Isla squeezed her eyes shut, her heart hammering so hard she was certain they could hear it through the wood. She looked down at Noah, her soul screaming a silent vow to protect him with her life.
Suddenly, a loud, metallic thud echoed from the hallway.
The apartment door was kicked off its hinges with such force that it shattered against the wall.
"What the—"
Before the intruder could finish his sentence, a massive shadow filled the doorway. It was Davis. But he wasn't the polite, quiet guard from the lobby. He carried a heavy tactical shotgun, his face set in an expression of absolute, lethal intent.
"Drop it," Davis roared.
The first intruder turned, raising a silenced pistol, but Davis was faster. The blast from the shotgun shattered the kitchen island, sending marble shards flying and throwing the first man back against the window. The second man charged Davis, but Davis dropped the gun, caught the man by the throat, and slammed him into the wall with enough force to crack the drywall.
Within seconds, the apartment was silent again, save for the heavy breathing of Davis and the groans of the two men on the floor.
The lights slammed back on. The backup generators had kicked in.
The private elevator doors opened, and Roman Callaway stepped out. He didn't look at the intruders. He didn't look at Davis. His eyes swept the room, looking for one thing.
"Isla!" Roman called out, his voice cracking with an emotion he had hidden for decades. "Isla!"
The utility closet door opened slowly. Isla stepped out, her face white, her arms shaking, but Noah was safe, his big blue eyes wide open, looking at the light.
Roman crossed the room in two strides. He didn't hesitate; he pulled both Isla and Noah into his arms, holding them against his chest with a fierce, protective desperation.
"I'm sorry," he whispered into her hair. "I should have had more men here. I underestimated how desperate they were."
Isla pressed her face into his shoulder, feeling the solid, unyielding warmth of him. For the first time in her life, she realized she wasn't alone in the dark.
Roman pulled back, his eyes turning to the two men Davis had pinned to the floor. He walked over to them, his face returning to that cold, terrifying mask of the mafia boss who ruled the city’s shadows.
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He reached down, ripped the mask off the first man, and recognized him instantly. It was Carl Voss’s personal head of security—a former dirty cop named Miller.
"Tell Carl," Roman said, his voice quiet, deadly, and absolute, "that he just turned a legal dispute into a territorial war. And I don't take prisoners in a war."
