Chapter 2 - The Enforcers of MorettiThe hallway outside the bedroom dissolved into a blur of black tactical gear and cold steel.
Before her husband could even turn toward the bedroom door, two massive men in dark suits pushed their way into the apartment. They moved with the terrifying economy of predators who didn't need to raise their voices to command a room. They didn't look at the furniture, the television, or the half-empty liquor bottle on the counter. Their eyes locked entirely on the target.
Her husband raised his hands defensively, backing away until his spine hit the living room wall. “Wait—look, there’s been a mistake! This is a private matter! You can’t just break into—*”
The lead enforcer didn't speak. He simply stepped forward, grabbed her husband by the collar with one hand, and slammed him against the drywall with a force that rattled the picture frames.
“You broke a rule,” a cold voice echoed from the hallway.
Vincent Moretti stepped through the shattered front door.
He wore a dark, impeccably tailored overcoat that brushed the floor, his silver-streaked hair neatly combed, his dark eyes devoid of any emotion whatsoever. He looked less like a criminal boss and more like an executioner who had arrived to balance a ledger that had been overdue for years.
He didn't look at the men holding her husband. He walked straight past them, his leather shoes clicking steadily against the floor, and stopped at the threshold of the shattered bathroom door.
He looked down at Lena.
Seeing her huddled against the bathtub, pale, sweating, her left arm hanging at an unnatural angle, and her fingers stained with dried blood, something dangerous and absolute flickered in Vincent’s eyes.
He knelt down, ignoring the dust and splinters, his large frame lowering until he was eye-level with her.
“Lena,” he said softly, his voice dropping the icy edge it had carried for everyone else. “Are you still holding the phone?”
She looked down at her right hand. She was still clutching the device. She slowly raised it and pressed it back against her ear.
“Yes,” she whispered.
Vincent reached out, gently taking her hand from the phone. His fingers were warm, steady, and extraordinarily gentle, contrasting sharply with the terrifying aura of power that filled the apartment. He slipped the phone from her fingers, placed it in his coat pocket, and then looked at her left arm.
“It’s broken, isn't it?”
“He... he twisted it,” she sobbed softly, the tears finally breaking through her shock. “He broke it.”
Vincent stood up slowly.
May you like
The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees. He turned his head toward the living room, where her husband was still pinned against the wall, gasping for air.
“Bring him here,” Vincent said quietly.
Related Stories
