Chapter 2 - The Alley behind Elm StreetThe alley behind Elm Street smelled of stale rainwater, burnt diesel, and copper.
The rain was falling heavier now, pounding against the corrugated tin roofs of the industrial garages lining the narrow passage. Vincent stepped out of the SUV before the vehicle had even fully come to a halt. In his arms, Sophie was wrapped in his heavy suit jacket, her small frame exhausted from fear and trauma.
Frankie swept the mouth of the alley with a silenced submachine gun, his eyes darting across the shadows. Three more Torino enforcers stepped out behind them, their heavy boots splashing into the deep puddles.
"Over there," Frankie muttered, pointing his weapon toward a dark patch of pavement near an overturned industrial dumpster.
Vincent walked toward the spot, his eyes scanning the floor.
Even through the torrential rain, the dark crimson stain on the cracked concrete was undeniable. Beside a shattered pair of reading glasses lay a single, dark blue silk heel—soaked in mud and blood. Near the wall, deep scrape marks in the brickwork showed where someone had fought wildly against being dragged into a vehicle.
Vincent handed Sophie over to his second-in-command, a massive, quiet man named Marco who stood near the rear door of the armored truck. "Keep her inside. Warm her up."
Sophie gripped Vincent's sleeve for a split second before letting go. "Find my mama... please."
"I will," Vincent promised, his voice devoid of any doubt.
He walked back into the center of the alley, kneeling down beside the bloodstain. He picked up the broken blue silk shoe, his leather-gloved fingers tracing the torn strap.
"Look at these tire tracks, Boss," Frankie said, crouching beside him with a high-powered tactical flashlight. "Heavy tread. Dual rear wheels. Commercial delivery vehicle, or an old utility van. Fresh rubber left on the curb where they hit the gas."
"They didn't come here to execute her," Vincent analyzed, his mind operating with terrifying, clinical precision. "If they wanted her dead, they would have left her body right here beside the dumpster. They beat her to control her, threw her in the back, and took off. Which means she’s alive."
"Why her?" Frankie asked, rubbing his jaw. "She's a civilian, Vinnie. An art restorer. She doesn't owe money, she doesn't have family in the business. Why ambush your blind date before you even meet her?"
"Because someone wanted to send a message," Vincent said, standing up and tossing the shoe into Frankie’s chest. "Someone wanted me to sit in that restaurant like an idiot while they took what was supposed to be mine. They wanted to humiliate me before they started a war."
Suddenly, a quiet, metallic sound chimed from the wet gravel near Vincent’s shoe.
He looked down. Half-buried in a puddle was a small, sleek smartphone with a shattered screen. It wasn't a burner; it was a high-end device with a pink protective case—Elena’s phone, dropped in the struggle.
The screen flickered to life. A single incoming text message flashed across the broken glass.
UNKNOWN NUMBER: "Did you like the bread at Romano's, Vincent? If you want to see your pretty little art restorer breathe again, come to the abandoned meatpacking plant on Pier 42. Alone. Or we send her back to you in pieces."
Vincent stared at the illuminated screen. A slow, terrifying smile spread across his face—the kind of smile that made grown men in the New York underworld pray for swift execution.
"Pier 42," Vincent whispered. "Call the boys. All of them."
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"He said alone, Boss," Frankie warned carefully.
Vincent turned his head, his dark eyes burning with absolute, uncompromising wrath. "Frankie, when have I ever played by another man's rules?"
