Chapter 215 Chapter 0214

Chapter 215 Chapter 0214
The shower ran hot.
Steam curled along the edges of the mirror, clinging to the tiled walls as Adam dragged a hand over his face, water rolling down his broad shoulders. His body bore the kind of scars that told a history without words—faint reminders of a life lived in violence, of battles won and wars survived.
He didn’t stay under long. He never did. A quick rinse, then he shut the water off, stepping out into the thick heat of the small bathroom.
With practiced efficiency, he dried off, rolling his neck until it cracked, the tension leaving his muscles in slow waves. Then, moving without hesitation, he dressed.
A crisp, open-collared black shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his forearms—just enough to show the sharp lines of muscle beneath dark skin. Polished trousers, pressed and fitted, clean against his frame. He stepped into his shined black leather shoes, the weight of them familiar, grounding.
Adam didn’t need a suit to look dangerous.
He just was.
His black skin contrasted with the sharp cut of his clothes, the light brown of his eyes deceptively warm—but only at a glance. Up close, there was nothing soft about them. They were assessing, sharp, and cold. A predator’s gaze, weighing everything and deciding if it was worth his time.
He adjusted his cuffs, flexing his fingers before grabbing his watch from the dresser, sliding it onto his wrist with quiet precision. The movement was smooth, unhurried.
Intimidation wasn’t about size or sound—it was about presence. And Adam?
He commanded a room before he even stepped inside.
He glanced at his phone, checking the time.
A text from Matthew.
Matthew: Gig’s simple. Private security. High profile client. Don’t fuck it up.
Adam: Ain’t my first rodeo.
A second later, another message popped up.
Matthew: Also, try not to kill him.
Adam snorted. What kind of weak-ass client was this? He didn’t need details—just the job. Whoever this guy was, he needed to look like the kind of man who could actually protect him.
His fingers flicked to the blade resting on the dresser. Small, sharp, wicked.
Old habits.
He picked it up, flipping it once between his fingers before tucking it into his waistband. Not because he expected to use it—just because it felt wrong to leave home without it.

Adam exhaled sharply, rolled his shoulders, and gave himself one last look in the mirror.
Not vanity. Not ego. Control.
The open collar, the rolled sleeves, the polished shoes—deliberate. It sent a message.
Whoever the client was, they’d know immediately who the hell they were dealing with.
Satisfied, Adam grabbed his keys and stepped out the door, heading straight for 1500 Fifth Avenue—Clark’s apartment.
Adam slid into the driver’s seat, adjusting his cuffs with practiced ease before starting the engine. The car rumbled to life, smooth and powerful, just like the man behind the wheel. He didn’t bother with music—he liked silence. It gave him room to think.
The drive to 1500 Fifth Avenue was uneventful, the city stretching out before him in streaks of dim light. It wasn’t his part of town—too clean, too polished—but business was business.
He pulled up, parking without a second thought, stepping out with the same effortless control that had made him feared in all the right circles. The doorman barely spared him a glance—money spoke louder than appearances, and Adam carried himself like he belonged anywhere he damn well pleased.
Inside, the elevator ride was quiet. Too quiet.
His fingers flexed against his palm as the floors ticked up. He rolled his shoulders, exhaled slowly. This was just another job. Another rich asshole who needed someone standing between him and the trouble he got himself into.
The elevator doors slid open.
Adam stepped out, made his way down the hall, and rang the doorbell.
Then, he waited.
His gaze drifted, sharp eyes scanning the details—the polished floors, the faintest scent of expensive cologne lingering in the air. His fingers flicked at his cuffs, adjusting the fabric, smoothing it over his forearms as he rolled his wrists out of habit.
A job was a job.
And then—
The door opened.
Adam’s smirk faded.
The fuck?
Of all the people in this goddamn city, this was the man he was supposed to protect?
Clark Brown.
The prosecutor who once tried to put him behind bars.
And there Clark was.
This?
This is who’s supposed to protect me from Cassidy’s enemies?
A thug.
Not just any thug.
But this one?
Adam MacDougall stood there, broad, imposing, and completely at ease, one hand resting lazily in his pocket while the other adjusted the cuff of his rolled-up sleeves, like he had all the time in the world. His dark skin contrasted sharply against the crisp black of his shirt, his light brown eyes flickering with amusement, like this was the funniest shit that had ever happened to him.
Clark felt actual rage build in his chest.
A street enforcer turned capo. A man whose entire reputation was built on violence, intimidation, and cleaning up messes with permanent solutions.
A man Clark had once prosecuted.
He had stood in a courtroom, built an entire case, and presented every goddamn reason why this man should be locked up for life.
And now?
Now, this criminal was supposed to be the one keeping him alive?
Clark inhaled sharply, forcing his expression into something cold, something sharp, something that hid the absolute fury rolling through him.
A slow grin curled at the edges of Adam’s mouth.
“Well, well, well,” he drawled, stepping back just slightly, arms spreading in exaggerated amusement. “Ain’t this a small world. Miss me?”
Clark’s eyes dragged over him, slow, calculating—before landing back on his face with absolute disdain.
And then?
Without a single word—
Clark shut the door in his face.
Adam barked out a laugh, low and genuine, before reaching up and ringing the bell again.
This job? He couldn't imagine it.
Just got a whole lot more fun.