Chapter 2 - SHADOWS BENEATH THE DESK
The morning meeting adjourned fifteen minutes later, the five suited men filing out of the sitting room with hurried, hushed strides, thoroughly shaken by the domestic spectacle they had just witnessed. Adrian stood up, his tall, imposing figure casting a long shadow across the cream-and-gold rug as he walked through the heavy double doors leading into his adjoining private office.
Adrian’s office was a shrine to power and history. The walls were lined with floor-to-ceiling dark oak bookshelves packed with leather-bound volumes, legal tombstones, and framed archival photographs. Sunlight sliced through the heavy velvet drapes, highlighting the centerpiece of the room: a massive, antique dark-wood executive desk carved from solid mahogany, its top pristine save for a brass pen set and a leather blotter.
Marcus followed him inside, closing the heavy oak doors behind them with a soft, solid click.
"The docks in Newark are quiet, Boss," Marcus reported, his voice low and steady as he stood near the leather armchairs facing the desk. "Our perimeter security on the south gate was rotated at six this morning. Nothing out of place."
Adrian didn't reply immediately. He walked around his massive desk, unbuttoning his cuffs and rolling the sleeves of his black shirt up to his elbows, revealing the dense, dark tattoos covering his forearms. He sat down in his high-backed black leather chair and leaned back, his sharp eyes fixed on the empty space ahead.
Then, a faint, rhythmic sound broke the silence of the office.
Scratch. Scratch. Tap.
Marcus instantly went alert, his hand dropping to the button of his suit coat, his eyes darting toward the corners of the room. "Boss?"
Adrian held up one finger, hushing his security chief. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the dark mahogany blotter, listening intently.
The sound came from directly beneath the massive executive desk.
Scratch. Tap. giggles.
Slowly, from the dark, deep leg-recess beneath the antique mahogany desk, a tiny pink floral bow appeared, followed by a head of wild, curly light-brown hair. Mia crawled out on her hands and knees, her pink dress dusty at the hem, dragging herself onto the thick carpet beside Adrian’s polished leather shoes.
Adrian looked down at her over the edge of his desk, his dark eyebrows pulled together in controlled disbelief.
"What are you doing down there?" Adrian asked, his deep voice resounding in the timber-paneled room.
Mia sat up on her knees, brushed a stray curl out of her face, and held her right hand high in the air, her fingers tightly coiled into a tiny fist. Her small face was glowing with absolute pride.
"I found the sad thing," Mia announced triumphantly.
She uncurled her small fingers.
May you like
Resting in her small, dusty palm was an old, heavy brass key. It was pitted with age, dark tarnish clinging to its intricate bow, with the number 417 deeply stamped into the flat metal blade.
Adrian’s relaxed posture vanished in a fraction of a second. Every muscle in his broad chest went rigid. His eyes locked onto the stamped numbers on the tarnished brass with a cold, terrifying intensity that made the air in the office instantly drop ten degrees.
