Chapter 4 - The Cancellation of the White
The private boutique of Bianke was illuminated by a warm, amber glow when Gabriel’s black SUV pulled up to the curb at 8:15 p.m. The rain had stopped, leaving the asphalt looking like oily glass beneath the yellow streetlights. Two of Marcus Romano’s enforcers stood outside the glass entrance, their hands buried deep inside the pockets of their long wool coats, their eyes scanning the passing traffic with the professional paranoia of men who knew a war was coming.
When they saw Gabriel step out of the vehicle, they immediately straightened, their postures stiffening as they gave him a curt, respectful nod.
"Signor Romano," the taller one said, his hand moving slightly away from his coat opening. "The wedding planner was looking for you. They’re setting up the flowers for the rehearsal."
Gabriel didn't answer them. He walked past them without a word, his long legs moving with a slow, deliberate cadence that carried the weight of a death sentence.
Inside, the smell of lavender and old money was gone, replaced by the sharp, chemical scent of expensive hairspray and the cloying sweetness of white lilies. Sloan Kensington was standing in the center of the showroom, her bridal veil now pinned to her blonde hair, trailing five feet behind her across the velvet carpet like a stream of spun silk. Her father, Arthur Kensington, sat on the plush leather sofa, a crystal tumbler of Scotch held in his gnarled hand, his sharp gray eyes watching his daughter with the cold pride of a man who had successfully sold his finest asset for a kingdom.
Marcus Romano was there too, sitting on the edge of the boutique’s mahogany desk, a cigar smoldering between his thick fingers. He was laughing at something Arthur had said, his gold watch glinting in the light of the chandelier.
The laughter died the moment Gabriel stepped through the door.
Sloan turned around, her silk skirt rustling with a sharp, angry sound. "Gabriel! Where have you been? My father has been waiting for forty-five minutes. The caterer needs the final headcount for the lobster—"
Gabriel didn't look at her. He walked straight to the center of the room, his eyes fixed on his cousin Marcus.
"You look comfortable, Marcus," Gabriel said, his voice dangerously soft.
Marcus blinked, a faint flicker of unease passing through his dark eyes before he covered it with a wide, easy smile. "Just helping your bride keep her sanity, cousin. You know how women get before the big day. Did you find your little secretary?"
"I found her," Gabriel said.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a heavy object wrapped in a white linen handkerchief. He tossed it onto the mahogany desk. It landed with a heavy, wet thud that made the crystal ash tray rattle.
Sloan frowned, stepping forward. "What is that? Gabriel, you're ruining the aesthetic of the room—"
"Open it, Marcus," Gabriel commanded.
Marcus hesitated, his smile slowly fading into a hard line. He reached out and pulled back the edge of the handkerchief. Inside was not a ledger. It was a collection of silver pins, coated in dried, dark blood, along with the curved surgical needle that Norah had dropped in the bathtub.
Arthur Kensington set his Scotch down on the table, his posture instantly shifting from an old man relaxing to a wolf preparing to spring. "What is the meaning of this, Romano?"
"The wedding is canceled," Gabriel said, his voice ringing through the silent boutique like a church bell in an empty valley.
Sloan let out a sharp, incredulous gasp. "What? You can't cancel the wedding! The invitations have been sent! The Archbishop is booked! My father’s ships are already entering your western slipways!"
"Your father’s ships are going to turn around and go back to Boston," Gabriel said, finally turning his gaze onto her. "And if I see a single Kensington crest on my docks by midnight, I will sink them into the harbor mud."
"Gabriel, you're insane," Marcus said, standing up from the desk, his hand moving slowly toward his belt line. "You're throwing away the biggest merger this city has seen in thirty years over a rogue secretary? She was stealing from the accounts, cousin. I told you that on Monday. I had to handle it."
"She wasn't stealing from me, Marcus," Gabriel said, his body perfectly still, his weight balanced on the balls of his feet. "She was logging your retirement plan."
He reached into his inner pocket and pulled out a handful of the high-resolution photographs Norah had hidden behind the baseboard. He threw them directly into Sloan’s face. The glossy paper fragments scattered across her white silk bodice, some sliding down to land on the velvet carpet between her satin shoes.
Sloan looked down at the images of herself and Marcus at the Meridian Hotel. Her pale skin turned a violent, mortified shade of red, her lips parting as she looked up at Gabriel with a mixture of rage and terror.
"This... this doesn't change the contract," she whispered, her voice shaking. "Our families have an agreement, Gabriel. My father’s distribution lines—"
"Your father’s lines are compromised," Gabriel said, his hand finally moving to rest on the butt of the Glock hidden beneath his jacket. "And so is your life expectancy if you don't get out of my sight in the next ten seconds."
Arthur Kensington stood up, his face dark with fury. "You think you can insult my daughter in my own territory, boy? Marcus, take care of this."
Marcus didn't move. He looked at Gabriel, then at the two enforcers through the glass window outside. He knew Gabriel was alone. He knew he had the numbers in the district. A dark, ugly smile spread across his face as he reached for his weapon.
"You should have stayed on the pedestal, Gabriel," Marcus sneered.
Before his gun could clear the holster, the glass front of the boutique disintegrated inward with a spectacular, deafening roar.
BOOM!
Liam had driven the black SUV straight through the display window, the heavy steel bumper crushing the mahogany desk and pinning Marcus Romano’s legs against the back wall with a horrific crunch of splintering timber and shattering bone. The two enforcers outside were thrown into the street by the impact, their weapons flying from their hands as the air filled with a dense cloud of white dust and broken glass.
Gabriel didn't flinch. He drew his Glock-19 with a single, lightning-fast motion and fired two rounds directly into Arthur Kensington’s chest before the older man could reach his pocket. The impact threw the Boston boss backward over the plush leather sofa, his crystal tumbler of Scotch shattering on the floorboards as his life drained into the velvet.
Sloan screamed—a high, piercing shriek of pure, unadulterated terror—as she fell to her knees among the bloody photographs, her white veil instantly turning gray with the dust of the destruction.
Gabriel walked through the wreckage, his leather shoes crunching over the glass shards until he stood before his cousin Marcus, who was screaming in agony beneath the hood of the SUV.
"Tell your men the ports are closed, Marcus," Gabriel said, his voice a cold, mechanical hum that carried no mercy.
He raised the weapon and fired a single round through his cousin’s forehead, silencing the screaming forever. He turned back to Sloan, who was shaking violently on the carpet, her perfect hair now a wild, tangled mess.
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"The palette for the weekend is black, Sloan," Gabriel said softly, looking down at her one last time. "Just like you wanted."
He turned and stepped over the shattered window frame, climbing into the passenger seat of the SUV as Liam threw the vehicle into reverse, backing out into the dark rain of the city as the war officially began.
