Chapter 4 - THE SAFE HOUSE
The threat from the Gallow organization forced Vincent to alter the security protocols of the estate entirely.
Nora was no longer permitted to walk to the gate or take the public bus. A permanent security detail was assigned to her, and Vincent insisted she occupy one of the guest rooms in the west wing of the mansion during the week to eliminate her daily commute.
At first, Nora resisted.
“I have an apartment,” she argued in Vincent’s private study on Friday afternoon, standing across from his massive mahogany desk. “I have laundry. I have a life.”
“Your apartment in Queens has a fire escape that leads directly to your bedroom window and a landlord who leaves the front door unlocked,” Vincent replied flatly, without looking up from the ledger he was reading. “A ten-year-old could break into your home. Gallow’s men would be inside in thirty seconds.”
“I’m not a prisoner, Mr. Russo.”
Vincent closed the ledger with a heavy thud and looked up at her.
“You’re an employee whose safety has been compromised because of my family,” he said, his eyes dark and unwavering. “If anything happens to you, my mother loses the only person who brings her peace. And I lose...”
He stopped himself.
Nora caught the hesitation. “You lose what?”
Vincent stood up slowly, walking around the desk until he stood a foot away from her. The faint scent of expensive cologne and tobacco drifted from his wool vest.
“I lose the only honest person in this house,” he said softly.
Nora looked into his dark eyes, feeling a strange, warm tremor pass through her chest. She pulled her gaze away, focusing on the silver pen resting on his desk.
“Fine,” she conceded quietly. “Monday through Friday. But I go home on weekends to check my mail.”
“Under guard,” Vincent added.
“Under guard,” she agreed reluctantly.
That evening, as rain began to fall once more over the Hudson Valley, Vincent took a rare evening off from his meetings. He walked down to the estate’s private library—a vast, two-story room filled with thousands of leather-bound books, floor-to-ceiling oak shelves, and a roaring marble fireplace.
He expected to be alone.
Instead, he found Nora sitting on the plush leather sofa near the fire, her legs tucked under her, a thick hardcover book resting on her lap. She wore a soft grey sweater and sweatpants, her hair down in natural waves over her shoulders.
She looked entirely different without her uniform or her professional guard up. She looked young, fragile, and strikingly beautiful in the amber firelight.
Vincent paused near the doorway, unaccustomed to seeing someone look so comfortable in a room that had always felt cold and formal to him.
Nora looked up from her page. “Am I in your spot?”
“No,” Vincent said, stepping into the room. He poured two fingers of Scotch into a crystal glass from the sideboard, hesitated, then poured a second glass. He walked over and held it out to her.
Nora looked at the amber liquid, then smiled faintly. “I thought you didn't give out free drinks to the staff.”
“Consider it compensation for the house arrest,” Vincent said, sitting down in the heavy armchair across from her.
Nora took the glass, taking a cautious sip. She winced slightly at the burn, then set it down on the side table. “What is this place, Vincent? I mean... the books. Did your father collect them?”
It was the first time she had called him by his first name without the formal 'Mr. Russo.'
Vincent noticed. He liked the sound of it in her voice.
“My grandfather did,” Vincent said, looking up at the high shelves. “He believed that if you accumulated enough art and literature, people would forget that you built your fortune on bootlegging and dock extortion.”
“Did it work?”
“No,” Vincent said candidly. “The city still remembers. They just charge us higher taxes.”
Nora let out a soft laugh—a genuine, warm sound that seemed to fill the quiet library. “You’re very cynical.”
“I’m a realist, Nora. In my world, optimism gets you killed.”
Nora closed her book, resting her chin on her hand as she watched him across the hearth. “It must be exhausting.”
“What?”
“Living like every shadow has a gun hidden in it,” she said gently. “Never trusting anyone. Never letting your guard down.”
Vincent looked at his glass, swirling the ice against the crystal. “Trust is a luxury for people who don't have three hundred lives depending on their decisions every day. If I make a mistake, my capos go to prison, my mother loses her care, and my men die in the streets.”
“And what about what you want?” Nora asked softly.
Vincent met her stare. The firelight flickered across her features, highlighting the curve of her cheekbones and the soft depth of her eyes.
“I stopped thinking about what I wanted ten years ago,” Vincent said quietly.
“That’s sad,” Nora whispered, leaning forward slightly. “Everyone deserves to want something, Vincent. Even the devil of New York.”
The atmosphere in the library shifted, turning dense and electric.
Vincent set his glass down on the table, his eyes fixed entirely on her face. For the first time in ten years, the heavy, suffocating armor he wore every day felt impossibly thin.
He reached out across the small space between their chairs, his fingers lightly touching the edge of her hand resting on the cushion.
Nora didn't pull away.
His thumb brushed against her wrist, over the faint white scar where the crystal had cut her weeks ago.
“I know what I want right now,” Vincent murmured, his voice dropping into a low, dangerous register.
Before Nora could answer, the library doors flew open with a loud bang.
May you like
Paulie rushed into the room, his face pale, holding a encrypted satellite phone in his hand.
“Boss!” Paulie barked, his voice filled with urgency, completely ignoring Nora. “We’ve got a massive problem. The Brooklyn warehouse just went up in flames. Carmine Gallow just declared open war.”
