Chapter 5 - The Gathering Storm
By 4:00 AM, the penthouse looked like a war zone, but the perimeter was secure.
Sam and a dozen of Vincent’s most trusted men had cleared the property, disposed of the tactical operatives through channels that didn't involve the police, and boarded up the shattered window with heavy plywood.
Nora sat on the edge of a velvet sofa in the living room, a wool blanket wrapped around her shoulders, holding a mug of hot tea that Sam had silently placed on the table before disappearing.
Vincent walked in from the balcony, his suit jacket removed, his white shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He looked tired—not the exhaustion of a tired businessman, but the deep, bone-weary fatigue of a man who had been fighting wars on the streets of Boston for over a decade.
He sat down on the opposite end of the sofa, resting his forearms on his knees.
“The key,” Vincent said quietly, looking at the silver locket still resting against her collarbone. “Your grandfather’s safe deposit box. Do you know where the box is located?”
“First National Bank of Boston,” Nora said, her voice steady now, the adrenaline finally giving way to a cold, hard resolve. “Branch on Hanover Street in the North End. My mother told me it was registered under a trust called Rossi Holdings.”
Vincent stared at her for a long moment.
“That vault hasn't been opened in twenty years,” he said. “And the federal government has been watching every asset tied to your uncle’s name since the trial collapsed. If we walk into that bank tomorrow morning with that key, the U.S. Attorney’s office will know within sixty seconds.”
“Then we don't wait until tomorrow morning,” Nora said, turning her head to meet his gray eyes directly.
Vincent raised an eyebrow. “Oh? And what do you propose we do at 4:30 in the morning?”
“You’re Boston’s most feared crime boss, right?” Nora challenged, a faint, defiant spark returning to her hazel eyes. “You own shipping companies, construction firms, private clubs, and probably half the plumbing in the North End. Can’t you break into a bank?”
A slow, dangerous, utterly breathtaking smile spread across Vincent’s face.
“Nora Bennett,” he said, shaking his head slowly. “You really are determined to get yourself killed, aren't you?”
“I’m determined to find out why my family spent twenty years living like ghosts,” she replied, her voice dropping into a fierce, unwavering register. “Are you coming with me, or do I have to borrow one of your black SUVs and do it myself?”
May you like
Vincent stood up, offering his hand down to her once more.
“Come on, waitress,” he said, his eyes gleaming with a fierce, protective warmth. “Let’s go rob a bank.”
