Chapter 7 - The Apex of Graves Tower
The private penthouse on the top floor of Graves Tower felt less like an apartment and more like a museum of wealth and power.
Walls of reinforced, bulletproof glass offered a breathtaking panoramic view of the entire New York skyline, glittering with millions of amber and ruby lights against the winter night. Ceilings vaulted high overhead, supported by exposed steel beams and dark mahogany panels, while modern art installations hung silently in the vast, open-space hallways.
A team of private nurses had already settled Clara into a master guest suite lined with silk sheets and private medical equipment, ensuring her exhausted body received the best care possible.
I stood alone in the center of the massive, minimalist living room, clutching my stuffed rabbit in both hands, feeling entirely too small for a room this big.
Soft footsteps approached from behind.
“Overwhelmed?”
I turned around to see Nathaniel standing there. He had removed his suit jacket, rolling up his crisp white sleeves to reveal strong, forearms corded with muscle and old, faded scars—silent testicles to the violent life he had carved out of the city’s shadows.
“It’s very big,” I admitted honestly, looking down at my scuffed sneakers against the polished white marble floor. “It doesn't feel like a home. It feels like a bank.”
Nathaniel offered a warm, self-deprecating smile, kneeling down so we were eye-level.
“You’re right,” he admitted softly. “For twelve years, this place was just a cage of glass and concrete where I punished myself for losing you and your mother. But we’re going to change that, Ruby. Starting tomorrow, we’re going to fill every corner of this place with life. Whatever you want—a dog, an art studio, a room full of books—you just name it, and it’s yours.”
Before I could answer, a sharp chime echoed from the private elevator foyer.
Nathaniel’s expression instantly hardened. The gentle father vanished in a heartbeat, replaced once again by the apex predator of the New York underworld.
“Stay here, Ruby,” he instructed firmly, standing up and stepping toward the arched entryway of the living room. “Do not leave this floor.”
He walked out into the private foyer just as the private elevator doors slid open.
Stepping out of the elevator wasn't Marcus or a security guard.
It was a tall, sharply dressed man with slicked-back graying hair, wearing an expensive tailored tuxedo and holding a gold-headed cane. His eyes carried the exact same cold, aristocratic sharpness as Nathaniel’s, but his smile was thin, venomous, and dripping with malicious satisfaction.
May you like
Uncle Vincent.
“Well, well, well,” Vincent drawled, his smooth voice carrying clearly into the living room where I stood frozen in terror. “Working late at the office, nephew? Or should I say... playing domestic hero in the slums?”
