Chapter 1 - The Weight of SteelThe deafening roar of Vincent’s heavy custom pistol shattered the narrow space between them. The backfire sang hot against Anna’s ear, the metallic scent of cordite blindingly sharp as the figure in the hallway collapsed with a thud onto the hardwood floor.
Anna gasped, her breath catching in her throat as Vincent’s hand—calloused, terrifyingly strong—held her pinned firmly against his chest. His heart hammered steady and slow beneath the fine wool of his tailored vest, a stark contrast to the absolute chaos erupting beyond the shattered study doors.
"Are you done playing the shield, Anna?" Vincent’s deep voice vibrated straight through her spine, thick with an icy restraint.
She turned her head slightly, her gaze locking onto his storm-grey eyes. There was no pity to be found in them, nor any trace of the helpless invalid his rivals presumed him to be. Despite the wheelchair beneath him, the man was a fortress—broad-shouldered, ruthless, and entirely in control of the violence unfolding around them.
"You were sitting target," Anna managed to breathe out, her fingers still trembling around the silver letter opener.
Vincent let out a short, dark scoff. Without letting her go, his large hand covered hers, effortlessly prying the silver blade from her tight grip and tossing it onto the blood-stained Persian rug. "A letter opener against automatic rifles. Your banking education truly prepared you for the frontlines."
Before she could retort, heavy footsteps thundered outside. Vincent shifted her off his lap in one swift, fluid motion, pushing her gently behind the thick mahogany desk. "Stay down. Don't speak unless you want a bullet in your jaw."
Three men burst through the shattered door frame, tactical vests strapped over casual clothes, suppressors attached to their weapons. They weren't common street thugs; they moved with military precision.
"Moretti!" the leader barked, raising his weapon.
Vincent didn't flinch. He engaged the manual locks on his wheels, sat back, and raised both arms, resting his forearms casually on the armrests. In his right hand, the gun remained hidden beneath the fold of his dark blazer.
"Dominic sent you," Vincent said, his voice terrifyingly calm amidst the rising stench of blood. "He always was an impatient underboss. Tell me, did he promise you a territory, or did he just promise to pay off your gambling debts?"
The leader hesitated for a fraction of a second—a fatal mistake.
Vincent’s arm snapped up, firing two quick, devastating shots. The lead attacker went down before he could pull his trigger. In the chaotic second that followed, the room erupted into gunfire. Plaster rained down like snow, glass shattered from the floor-to-ceiling windows, and the heavy smell of gunpowder filled the air.
Anna pressed her back against the inner well of the heavy desk, her hands clamped over her ears. She watched as Vincent navigated the fight not with agility, but with cold, calculated efficiency. He used the reinforced steel frame of his custom wheelchair as cover, leaning into turns, leveraging his massive upper-body strength to aim with lethal precision. He didn't waste a single bullet. Every shot was a kill, every movement calculated to counter his physical limitations.
Within forty seconds, silence returned to the study, broken only by the heavy breathing of the sole surviving attacker—a younger man pinned beneath the weight of his fallen comrade, bleeding heavily from a chest wound.
Footsteps echoed from the outer hallway, but this time they were systematic, disciplined. Marco, Vincent’s head of security, burst into the room followed by four heavily armed guards.
"Boss!" Marco gasped, scanning the bodies littering the floor before his eyes landed on Vincent, who was calmly reloading his magazine. "We cleared the east wing. It was a coordinated strike. They breached through the perimeter gates."
"Dominic," Vincent said simply, his voice cutting through the panic like a razor. "He made his move sooner than I anticipated. Clean this up. I want the survivor in the cellar. He will tell us which of our lieutenants funded this operation."
"Understood, sir." Marco nodded, signaling the men behind him to begin hauling the bodies out.
Vincent maneuvered his chair around the corner of the desk, stopping right beside Anna. She was still sitting on the floor, her silk dress stained with plaster dust, her hair disheveled, but her eyes were sharp, reflecting a strange mixture of terror and fierce defiance.
He extended a hand toward her. "Get up."
Anna looked at his large, calloused hand, then up at his stern face. She didn't take it. Instead, she pushed herself up using the edge of the desk, standing tall despite her trembling legs. She brushed the dust off her skirt, trying desperately to regain her composure.
"I don't need your pity, Vincent," she said, her voice shaking slightly despite her best efforts.
"Good," Vincent replied, withdrawing his hand without a hint of annoyance. "Because I don't give any. But you need to realize something, Anna. My enemies know you are in this house. They know what your father did, and they know why you are here. To them, you are my weakness."
"I am not your weakness," she snapped, taking a step toward him. "I am a business transaction. A year of my life in exchange for keeping my father out of prison."
Vincent leaned forward, his dark eyes locking onto hers with an intensity that made her breath catch. "In our world, an unshielded asset is a target. From this moment on, you do not leave my sight. Not because I care for your safety, but because if they use you to get to me, I will have to burn this entire city to fix it."
Before Anna could respond, Marco stepped back into the room, holding a encrypted satellite phone. His face was pale.
"Boss," Marco said quietly. "It's the docks. Dominic’s men just seized shipment four. And... they took your brother, Leo."
May you like
Vincent’s jaw tightened, the muscles flexing beneath his pale skin. A suffocating silence fell over the study, far more dangerous than the gunfire that had preceded it. He looked back at Anna, his expression completely unreadable.
"Welcome to the family, Anna," Vincent whispered softly. "Now the real war begins."
