Chapter 2 - The Monster Meets the Devil
Greg’s arrogance had always lived on a diet of weak targets. He was a master at terrorizing five-foot-four women who had nowhere else to sleep and no family left to call. But standing under the dead-eyed gaze of Vincent Moretti and two heavily armed hitmen, the bully evaporated, leaving behind a terrified boy shaking in sweat-soaked cotton.
"Listen, man," Greg stammered, flattening his palms against the tile behind him. "I don't know who you are. This is a domestic issue. A misunderstanding. Lena, tell him! Tell him we were just having a fight!"
I couldn't speak. I could only stare at Vincent. In the dim, flickering light of the bathroom, the mafia boss looked less like a savior and more like an elemental force of nature that had mistakenly materialized in my miserable life.
Vincent didn't look at Greg. He slowly crouched down until he was at eye level with me.
Up close, he smelled of cedarwood, expensive tobacco, and rain. His eyes, which had looked completely devoid of emotion an instant ago, softened by an imperceptible fraction as he took in the state of my face—the split lip, the swelling along my cheekbone, and the grotesque crook in my left forearm.
"Can you stand, Lena?" he asked. His voice was shockingly gentle, a striking contrast to the violence humming through the room.
"I... I don't know," I whimpered. My voice was shredded, barely a rasp.
Vincent reached out a gloved hand and lightly touched the back of my uninjured shoulder. "Look at me. Only at me."
I forced my eyes to meet his.
"You called," Vincent said plainly. "I answered. Your life with this animal ends tonight. Do you understand?"
Tears spilled over my lashes, hot and stinging against my bruised cheeks. I nodded once.
"Marco," Vincent commanded without breaking eye contact with me.
One of the armed men stepped forward, slinging his rifle over his back with fluid grace. "Boss?"
"Take her out to the town car. Dr. Keller is waiting in the back. Have him immobilize the fracture before we move her upstate."
"Understood."
Marco knelt beside me. "Miss Lena, I'm going to lift you. It's going to hurt your arm, but I’ll be as careful as I can."
As Marco gently slid an arm under my knees and another around my back, Greg lunged forward half a step, panic overriding his survival instinct. "Hey! You can't just take my wife! That's kidnapping! I have rights!"
Vincent rose to his full height—easily six-foot-two—and turned. In a single, fluid motion that was almost too fast for my concussed brain to track, Vincent’s right hand shot out, grabbed Greg by the throat, and slammed his head back into the ceramic tiles.
The impact sounded like a bowling ball hitting pavement.
A choked, strangled wheeze escaped Greg’s lips as his feet left the floor. Vincent held him pinned against the wall with one hand, his fingers sinking deep into the soft tissue of Greg's neck.
"Rights?" Vincent whispered, leaning in so close their foreheads nearly touched. "You forfeited your rights the moment you put your hands on something that belongs under my protection."
"V-Vincent..." Greg choked out, his face turning an alarming shade of plum as he realized the name of the man holding him. "Moretti... please... I didn't know... she never said..."
"She didn't know either," Vincent said coldly. "She thought I gave her that card out of charity. But I don't give charity, Gregory. I make investments."
Marco carried me out of the bathroom. I tried to look back, but Marco softly warned, "Eyes forward, ma'am. You don't need to see this part."
The hallway was filled with three more men in black suits, standing guard with assault weapons drawn. Our tiny living room, usually littered with Greg's empty beer cans and old newspapers, had been transformed into an active military zone. Neighbors' doors were cracked open down the hall, but the moment Marco's shadow passed them, doors slammed shut and locks turned. No one was calling the police. When the Moretti family moved through Queens, even the sirens knew to stay quiet.
Outside, the freezing November air hit my feverish skin like a splash of ice water. Down on the curb, three matte-black SUVs and an extended armored sedan idle in the darkness, exhaust pluming into the night air.
Marco set me down carefully into the leather rear seat of the middle vehicle.
Waiting inside was an older man with silver wire-rimmed glasses and a hard leather medical kit already open on his lap.
"Good evening, Miss Lena," the doctor said, his hands moving with practiced efficiency. "I'm Dr. Keller. We're going to give you something for the pain right now, and then I'm going to set a temporary splint. You're going to feel a small pinch."
Before I could answer, a needle slipped into the muscle of my good arm. Within seconds, a warm, heavy blanket seemed to settle over my screaming nerves. The agonizing fire in my broken bone receded into a dull, distant throb. My eyelids felt heavier than lead.
Through the tinted glass of the SUV, I saw the front entrance of the apartment building swing open again.
Vincent walked out into the amber glow of the streetlamp. He was pulling off a pair of black leather gloves. Behind him, two of his men carried a heavy, rolled-up Persian rug from our living room down the concrete steps toward the trunk of the rear SUV. The rug wasn't empty. It sagged heavily in the middle, and dark red drops dotted the slush on the pavement behind it.
Vincent didn't look back. He tossed the stained gloves into an open trash barrel on the sidewalk, flicked a silver lighter, and dropped the flame into the bin. The leather caught fire instantly.
He walked over to the sedan, opened the door, and slid into the leather seat opposite me. The interior light illuminated the sharp angles of his face. His tie was straight. His hair was pristine. Not a drop of blood marred his charcoal suit.
"How is she, Keller?" Vincent asked, settling back against the leather.
"Severe fracture of the left ulna and radius, concussion, multiple contusions across the ribs and face," Dr. Keller recited, wrapping a rigid fiberglass brace around my arm. "She needs surgery to place plates on the bone. But she's stable."
"Take us to the estate," Vincent instructed the driver. The glass partition slid up, sealing us in silence as the convoy pulled away from the curb.
I fought the heavy fog of the sedative, struggling to keep my eyes on the man sitting across from me. "Greg..." I mumbled, my tongue thick and clumsy. "What did you... to him..."
Vincent looked at me through the dim interior. His hazel eyes were unreadable, deep as an ocean trench.
"Your husband will never lay a hand on you again, Lena," Vincent said softly. "In fact, by sunrise, Gregory Miller will no longer exist in this city. Sleep now. You are safe."
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The last thing I remembered before the blackness swallowed me whole was the sensation of his heavy wool coat being draped gently over my shivering shoulders.
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