Chapter 6 - Shadows of the Past Re-emerge
The transition from Savannah to Manhattan was smoother than I anticipated, yet old habits die hard in the world I operated in. Three months after bringing Naomi and Lily to my penthouse overlooking Central Park, the shadows of my former life decided to test us one last time.
It was a crisp Tuesday evening. Naomi was in her new design studio in TriBeCa, preparing for an upcoming gallery showcase, while Julie had taken Lily to the Museum of Natural History for the afternoon. I was in my high-floor home office reviewing quarterly acquisition reports when my secure encrypted phone buzzed on the mahogany desk.
It was Marcus.
"Boss, we have a situation," Marcus's voice came through the speaker, tight and controlled. "One of my surveillance details picked up movement outside the TriBeCa studio. A man named Ronald Vance."
My blood ran cold. Ronald Vance. He was a former lieutenant of my late uncle—a mid-level enforcer who had managed to slip through the federal net during the 2021 sweep by hiding in South America. He had recently resurfaced in the Tri-State area, looking for leverage, looking for blood, and specifically looking for the remaining heirs to the Moretti empire.
"Where is he?" I asked, my voice dropping into a deadly, flat register.
"He's heading up the freight elevator to Naomi's floor right now. He thinks she's alone. I have two teams en route, but they're five minutes out from the crosstown traffic."
Five minutes.
That was an eternity.
Without a word, I slammed my laptop shut, drew the concealed Sig Sauer 9mm from the desk holster, checked the magazine, and bolted out of my office toward the private elevator.
In the sleek, glass-fronted design studio in TriBeCa, Naomi was finishing up a vector print on her large monitor when the heavy oak entry door slowly creaked open.
Thinking it was the courier returning with extra cardstock, she didn't turn around immediately. "Just leave it on the front table, thanks—"
"I don't think a courier carries a piece, sweetheart," a raspy, unfamiliar voice rasped from the doorway.
Naomi spun around. Standing in the entrance was a heavily built man in a cheap gray trench coat, holding a silenced pistol pointed directly at her chest. His face was scarred, his eyes dead and predatory.
"Ronald Vance," Naomi breathed, recognizing the name immediately from the police briefings she had memorized years ago.
"Smart girl," Vance sneered, stepping further into the studio, locking the deadbolt behind him. "Dante thinks he won. He thinks he cleaned house and built his little happy family in a glass cage. But he forgot about the roaches that crawl out of the basement."
Naomi’s heart hammered against her ribs, but her survival instinct—honed by five years of protecting her daughter—took over. Instead of screaming, she slowly backed toward her heavy drafting desk where her heavy glass paperweight sat.
"Dante is going to destroy you," she said, keeping her voice remarkably steady to buy time.
"Dante is across town," Vance laughed, raising the gun higher. "And by the time he gets here, you and your little bastard kid will just be another tragic headline. Your boyfriend took everything from me. Now I’m taking everything from him."
He lunged forward, grabbing Naomi by the arm and dragging her toward the freight elevator.
That was when the elevator bell chimed.
Ding.
The heavy steel doors slid open instantly.
I stepped out of the car, moving with the terrifying speed and cold precision of a apex predator. Before Vance could even register my presence, I raised my sidearm and fired a single round into the concrete floor inches from his boot, the deafening crack echoing off the high brick walls.
"Let her go, Ronald," I said, my voice cutting through the space like a razor.
Vance froze, his eyes widening in sheer panic as he shoved Naomi aside and spun around, frantically trying to level his pistol at my chest.
He was too slow.
Before his barrel cleared his trench coat, I closed the distance, slamming the butt of my pistol directly across his jaw with bone-crushing force. Vance dropped like a stone, unconscious before he even hit the floorboards.
I stood over him for a second, my chest heaving, before dropping my gun back into its holster and spinning around to catch Naomi as she stumbled into my arms.
"Are you okay?" I demanded, my hands gripping her shoulders, checking her over frantically. "Did he touch you?"
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"I'm fine," she sobbed, burying her face against my chest, her arms locking around my waist. "I'm fine, Dante. You... you got here."
"Always," I whispered, pressing my lips into her dark curls. "Nobody touches my family. Nobody."
