Chapter 4 - The Midnight Negotiation
The black Cadillac Escalade cut through the rain-slicked streets of Queens like a hearse.
Vincent sat in the rear passenger seat, his phone pressed to his ear, his voice terrifyingly calm as he gave orders to his harbor commanders.
“Pull the security teams from Pier 42,” he was saying. “Shift them to the rail yard. If Valenti’s people try to move a single semi-trailer past the gate tonight, slash the tires and burn the manifests. Do not call the police. Call my office.”
He ended the call with a flick of his thumb and lowered the phone to his lap.
The vehicle was dark save for the amber glow of the dashboard clock: 11:42 PM. Outside, neon signs from shuttered auto body shops and industrial warehouses blurred into streaks of red and yellow across the rain-drenched glass.
I sat beside him, my fingers interlaced tightly in my lap. “You went to see my mother.”
Vincent didn't flinch. He didn't turn his head. “The facility’s perimeter security was insufficient. Two guards for an eighty-bed unit is negligence. I hired four private officers to rotate shifts at the front gate.”
“Why didn't you tell me?”
“Because you would have argued that you could handle it yourself,” he said, his slate eyes shifting toward me in the dim light. “You carry too much, Claire. You have since the day your father walked out on you when you were nineteen. You think if you let anyone hand you a glass of water, it means you're drowning.”
The accuracy of the strike left me breathless. It was humiliating how easily he saw through the steel walls I spent every waking hour constructing.
“Evan thinks I used him,” I whispered, staring down at my knuckles. “He thinks I stayed close to him to get access to you.”
Vincent made a low sound in the back of his throat—a dark, bitter chuckle. “Evan doesn't think. He reacts. He saw an extraordinary woman who didn't fawn over his bank account, and he convinced himself that meant you belonged to him.”
“I tried to care for him, Vincent. I swear I did.”
“I know.” His hand moved across the leather seat between us.
His fingers didn't grasp mine; they merely touched the edge of my palm, warm, rough, and solid. The contact sent a jolt of pure voltage straight up my spine.
“That’s why I stayed away from you for three years,” Vincent said, his voice dropping to a register that made my ears buzz. “Because I watched you try so damn hard to love a boy who couldn't even see the weight of the burdens you carried. And every day I had to sit behind my desk, watch you walk into my office, and tell myself that letting you have a normal, safe life with my son was better than dragging you into my grave.”
I swallowed hard, my heart hammering against my ribs. “This isn't a normal life, Vincent. None of this is safe.”
“No,” he murmured, his thumb brushing the sensitive skin of my wrist, right over my galloping pulse. “It isn't. But you didn't choose safe last night, did you?”
The Escalade lurched to a halt.
Marcus turned around from the front passenger seat. “We’re here. Back alley entrance to The Foundry. Valenti’s got six lookouts on the roof and four on the fire escape.”
Vincent let go of my wrist. The sudden absence of his touch felt like frostbite.
“Marcus, stay with Claire in the vehicle,” Vincent said, reaching down to unbutton his jacket, revealing the shoulder holster strapped tightly across his ribs.
“No,” I said immediately.
Vincent paused, his eyebrow ticking up. “Claire—”
“Evan is here because of me,” I said, meeting his gaze without blinking. “If you walk in there alone with a gun, it becomes a gang war. Evan will dig his heels in just to spit in your face. If I walk in with you, he has to look at the person he’s actually trying to punish.”
Vincent studied me for five long, unbearable seconds. The rain drumming against the roof sounded like falling shells.
“If a single weapon clears leather,” Vincent said, his voice dropping into that lethal, quiet tone that brooked no debate, “you drop to the floor. You do not negotiate. You do not try to be brave. Do you understand me?”
“I understand.”
Marcus opened the door, popping an umbrella over our heads as we stepped into the freezing Queens downpour. The stench of wet trash and industrial oil filled the air.
We crossed the alleyway toward a rusted iron door guarded by two men in heavy parkas with bruised knuckles and dead eyes. The moment they recognized Vincent Marlowe, their postures stiffened, hands twitching toward their pockets.
“Valenti knows we’re coming,” Vincent said without stopping. “Move, or Marcus will leave you both in the dumpster.”
The two men exchanged a terrified look, stepped aside, and pulled the heavy door open.
Inside, the bass of a sound system vibrated through the concrete floors. The room was vast, dark, and filled with smoke. Poker tables were scattered across the floor, surrounded by low-level bookies, dock foremen, and syndicate soldiers.
At the far end of the room, sitting at a velvet-lined VIP booth beneath a flickering amber spotlight, was Evan.
He had a glass of amber liquor in one hand, three empty bottles of champagne on the table in front of him, and his shirt was rumpled and unbuttoned halfway down his chest. His right hand was wrapped in a crude, blood-stained bar rag.
And sitting directly across from him, grinning like a hyena over a fresh carcass, was Sal Valenti.
Evan looked up as the heavy metal door slammed shut behind us. His eyes drifted over his father, completely unimpressed—until they landed on me.
The color drained from his face, replaced instantly by a flush of red, burning fury.
May you like
“Well,” Evan sneered, his voice slurred but loud enough to cut through the music. “Look who came to collect the runaway dog. The Boss and his new favorite employee.”
***
