Chapter 2 - The Arrival
The heavy steel door slammed inward, ripping clean through the frame and crashing onto the hardwood floor.
Marcus froze, his arm still raised, turning his head toward the entrance in stunned disbelief.
Three men stepped into the apartment. They didn't wear masks or tactical gear. They wore immaculate, dark bespoke suits. The two men on the flanks moved with a silent, lethal precision, their weapons raised and equipped with heavy suppressors.
And in the center stood Vincent Moretti.
He looked exactly as he had the night he walked into my diner: imposing, immaculate, and utterly terrifying. He wore a charcoal-grey wool coat over a three-piece suit. His silver-streaked dark hair was combed back perfectly, and his dark eyes swept over the room, taking in the overturned coffee table, the shattered bathroom door, and finally, me lying curled on the couch with my twisted arm.
When his eyes landed on my broken limb, something shifted in his expression. It wasn't anger; it was an absolute, terrifying stillness that felt far more dangerous than anything my husband had ever done.
11:48 PM.
Eight minutes. Exactly.
"Who the hell are you?!" Marcus shouted, taking a step back, instinctively holding his belt like a weapon. "Get out of my house! I'll call the police!"
Vincent didn't even look at Marcus. He unbuttoned his coat, slid it off his broad shoulders, and handed it to one of his men without breaking eye contact with me.
He walked past Marcus as if my husband were nothing more than a piece of trash left on the sidewalk. He stopped beside the couch and dropped to one knee.
"Lena," he said softly. His voice held a shocking warmth that completely contradicted the brutal efficiency of his entrance. "Can I touch you?"
I nodded weakly, tears finally spilling past my lashes. "Vincent..."
He reached out with a gloved hand, gently cupping the back of my head, supporting me as I leaned forward. His eyes flicked down to my left arm, which was swelling badly, the bone visibly misshapen beneath the skin.
"It hurts," I sobbed quietly.
"I know," Vincent murmured, his thumb softly wiping a tear from my cheek. "It's over now. No one is ever going to hurt you again."
"Hey!" Marcus screamed behind him, his voice cracking with panicked rage. "I'm talking to you, you bastard! That's my wife!"
Marcus lunged forward, raising his fist.
He didn't make it two steps.
The man standing to Vincent's left—a massive, scarred individual named Frank—moved with blinding speed. He stepped into Marcus's path, grabbed his raised arm, and twisted it backward with a sickening, wet SNAP.
Marcus let out an agonizing, high-pitched shriek, dropping to his knees as his own right arm was dislocated at the shoulder.
Vincent didn't even turn his head at the sound. He kept his attention entirely on me. He carefully reached behind my back, sliding his right arm beneath my knees and his left behind my shoulders, hoisting me up off the sofa with effortless strength.
I winced, a small whimpering sound escaping my lips as the movement jostled my injury.
"Shh," Vincent breathed against my forehead, holding me firmly against his broad chest. "Hold onto my neck with your right hand. I've got you."
I buried my face into the crisp fabric of his suit collar, inhaling the scent of rain, expensive tobacco, and cedarwood. For the first time in five years, the suffocating terror that had lived in my lungs began to dissipate.
Vincent stood up carrying me, turning to face Marcus, who was writhing on the floor, holding his broken arm and whimpering in the dust.
"Who... who are you?" Marcus sobbed, staring up at the giant standing above him.
Vincent looked down at him with an expression of pure disgust.
"My name is Vincent Moretti," he said quietly.
Marcus's eyes widened in sheer, unadulterated horror. Even in his drunken, violent state, he knew that name. Everyone in New York knew it. The stories of men who crossed Moretti ending up in the depths of the Hudson River weren't urban legends; they were warnings.
"Mr. Moretti... please," Marcus stammered, his face turning pale green. "It was... it was a marital dispute! She's my wife! I have rights!"
Vincent looked at Frank. "Clean up this apartment. Erase his existence from this building. Bring him to the docks in South Brooklyn."
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"No! Please! Lena, tell him!" Marcus screamed, grabbing at Frank's pant leg as the large man hauled him up off the floor by his collar. "Lena! Save me!"
I kept my cheek pressed against Vincent's shoulder. I didn't look back.
