Chapter 8 - The Shadow’s Last Strike
Though Arthur Hawthorne was behind bars, the remnants of his corrupt associates were not willing to let the Duca fortune go without a fight.
Two weeks after the gala, a heavy snowstorm blanketed Pilsen in white silence. Late on a Thursday evening, after Molly had gone home, Clara stood alone in the shop, finishing the lining of a dark wool overcoat for Adrien.
The front door bell didn't chime. The lock was forced open with a sudden, violent snap.
Three men in dark heavy coats stepped inside the shop, bringing a wave of freezing air with them. The lead man was Julian Hawthorne—Arthur’s nephew and the disgraced head of security for Hawthorne Logistics.
“Miss Bennett,” Julian spat, pulling a heavy steel crowbar from his coat. “You cost my family forty million dollars.”
Clara stepped back toward her worktable, her hand slipping behind her back toward the heavy brass steam iron warming on its plate.
“Julian,” Clara said, keeping her voice completely steady. “The police are already monitoring this block. If you touch anything in this shop, you will be joining your uncle in federal prison by midnight.”
“My uncle is facing twenty years because of you and Duca!” Julian shouted, his face twisted in rage. He stepped forward, swinging the crowbar down against her main worktable, smashing her wooden sewing box into splinters. Buttons and silk threads scattered across the floor like blood drops. “Let’s see how much Adrien loves you when your face matches this ruined shop!”
He lunged toward her.
Before he could reach her, the front glass window shattered inward as two heavy black SUVs slammed onto the curb outside.
The shop door was kicked off its hinges.
Adrien Duca stepped through the snow and splintered wood like a demon rising from the frost. Behind him came four armed security officers, but Adrien didn't wait for them.
He grabbed Julian by the collar of his coat, hurling him across the room with terrifying, raw strength. Julian slammed against the brick wall, dropping the crowbar with a heavy metallic clang.
Adrien’s men tackled the other two intruders to the floor, pinning them in seconds.
Adrien didn't even look at the fallen men. He rushed to Clara, his long arms wrapping around her waist, pulling her flush against his racing heart. His hands moved frantically over her hair, her face, her shoulders, checking for injuries.
“Clara,” he gasped, his voice trembling with a terror she had never heard in him before. “Are you hurt? Did he touch you?”
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“I’m fine, Adrien,” Clara whispered, wrapping her arms around his broad neck, holding him tightly as the cold wind blew through the broken shop. “I’m fine. You came.”
“I will always come,” Adrien swore into her hair, his eyes burning with tears he hadn't shed in thirty years. “I will burn this city to the ground before I let anyone hurt you.”
