Chapter 2 - The Bakery Box Confrontation, the Underboss’s Hidden Trap, and the Unlikely Sanctuary Inside the Croft EstateGideon watched the woman approach.
She looked entirely unsuited for the dark, lethal architecture of his world. Her yellow vinyl raincoat was peeling at the seams, her hair was plastered to her temples in damp brown wisps, and she held a towering bakery box with a fierceness that suggested she protected it like a shield.
Beside her, a small boy stared around the grand hall with wide, unimpressed eyes, his lollipop finally slipping from his mouth and landing softly on the Persian carpet.
“Pick that up, Laith,” Neta muttered automatically, stepping up to the edge of the mahogany table. She dumped the massive pink-striped box onto the pristine white tablecloth right beside a crystal water goblet.
“You’re late,” Gideon said. His voice dropped into that low, gravelly register that had once terrified municipal judges and dock foremen alike.
Neta blinked, startled by the sheer power vibrating beneath his tone, despite the wheelchair. She crossed her arms defensively over her chest.
“I’m thirty-five minutes late because your security gate took forever to open, and traffic on I-95 is a parking lot,” Neta snapped back, exhaustion completely overriding any sense of intimidation. “If you wanted it here at seven sharp, you should have ordered from a bakery closer than forty miles away.”
Thomas stiffened, stepping forward. “Madam, you are speaking to Mr. Gideon Croft—!”
“I don’t care if he’s the pope,” Neta interrupted, her voice rising. “I drove through a hurricane, my alternator is smoking, and I have a tired six-year-old who needs to be in bed. Now, I dropped the cake off. I need my five-hundred-dollar balance paid in full, cash or card, so I can go home.”
Gideon stared at her.
For six months, everyone who entered his presence either cowered in fear, offered pity he despised, or plotted his immediate execution. No one had ever yelled at him about traffic inside his own dining hall.
A slow, humorless smirk touched the corners of Gideon’s mouth.
“You have spirit,” Gideon noted quietly. “Foolish. But spirit.”
“It’s not spirit, it’s rent,” Neta shot back, tapping her foot against the floor. “The invoice, please?”
Gideon didn't answer immediately. He reached out, his strong fingers untying the pink satin ribbon securing the bakery box. He lifted the lid.
Inside sat an extraordinary, absurdly elaborate three-tier chocolate fudge cake decorated with spun-sugar clock hands and a small, delicate marzipan wolf howling at a crescent moon. It was a masterpiece. It was also the exact cake Arthur used to order every year, complete with the inside joke about the wolf.
Gideon’s throat tightened. The phantom fire in his legs flared, a cruel reminder of what he had lost.
“Arthur ordered this,” Gideon murmured, tracing the edge of the box with his thumb.
Neta’s expression softened slightly, seeing the sudden shadow cross the powerful man’s face. “Yeah. The old man who paid the deposit four months ago. He was very specific about the wolf. Said you had a bad habit of howling at your own reflection.”
Gideon let out a dry, humorless chuckle. “He wasn't wrong.”
He reached into his breast pocket, pulling out a thick, black leather wallet. He withdrew five crisp one-hundred-dollar bills and laid them squarely on the table.
Neta snatched them up instantly, checking each bill against the chandelier light before tucking them safely into her raincoat pocket. A profound, visible wave of relief washed over her features.
“Thank you,” she whispered, her voice losing its sharp edge. She grabbed her son’s hand. “Come on, Bug. Let’s go before the car dies.”
“Wait.”
Neta stopped, turning back toward him. “What? You paid in full. The cake is here.”
“Look outside your window,” Gideon said, nodding toward the towering stained-glass panes.
Neta frowned, walking over to the window and pulling back the heavy velvet drape.
Outside, parked near the front gates and lining the long, winding private driveway, were four black Escalades. Their headlights were off, but the silhouette of armed men stepping out into the pouring rain was unmistakable.
“Who... who are they?” Neta asked, her blood running cold as she recognized the menacing posture of the men.
“My underboss, Declan Walsh,” Gideon said, his voice dropping into a register of absolute, freezing death. “He decided my birthday party needed a few uninvited guests. And since he knows Thomas and I are the only ones left in this house, they’re here to ensure I don’t see tomorrow.”
Neta stared at him in horror, then looked down at her son, who was currently trying to poke a decorative fork into a silver candlestick.
“You’re telling me,” Neta breathed, her voice shaking, “that you are a literal mob boss, and your enemies chose tonight—while I am standing in your dining room with my kindergartener—to launch an assassination attempt?!”
“Essentially, yes,” Gideon replied calmly, his hand slipping beneath his jacket to grip the SIG Sauer.
May you like
Before Neta could scream, panic, or demand an explanation, the heavy oak front doors of the estate exploded inward with a deafening crash. Glass shattered. Shouts echoed from the foyer.
The siege had begun.
