Chapter 4 - Shadows Behind the Glass
The private wing of Presbyterian Hospital was completely evacuated and locked down within twenty minutes of Emma’s arrival.
Armed sentries in dark tactical gear stood at every stairwell, elevator bank, and rooftop access point.
No public doctors were allowed near room 404; only Vincent’s personal medical team, sworn to absolute secrecy under penalty of death.
Emma lay in the center of the sterile, quiet room, attached to intravenous lines and a steady heart monitor.
Her head had been gently cleaned and stitched, a pristine white bandage covering the wound where Chase’s fist had struck.
Her breathing was deep and rhythmic now, the color slowly creeping back into her porcelain cheeks.
Vincent sat in an armchair right beside her bed, his coat discarded, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows.
His hands were stained with her blood, dry and dark against his skin, but he refused to leave her side to wash it away.
He held her small, limp hand between his own, staring at her delicate features with an intensity that bordered on reverence.
Fifteen years ago, Emma had been a little girl running through the rose gardens of the Romano estate in upstate New York.
Vincent had been a fourteen-year-old boy, the son of the underboss, sworn by ancient blood oaths to protect her with his life.
Then came the night of black smoke, gunfire, and betrayal.
Her parents had smuggled her out in the trunk of a car before their mansion was burned to the ground.
Vincent had fought through the fire, arriving only in time to watch the estate collapse into ash, believing she had died in the inferno.
He had built an empire of blood and iron solely to find out who ordered the strike, only to discover she was alive, hiding in plain sight as a waitress.
The door clicked open softly, and Marco stepped into the room, holding a black leather folder.
“Boss,” Marco said in a low murmur, wary of disturbing the sleeping girl.
Vincent did not look away from Emma’s face.
“Report,” he ordered softly.
“Chase Montgomery’s hands have been dealt with; he won’t hold a glass again,” Marco stated evenly.
“The five-million-dollar offshore payment was routed through seven shell companies in Panama and Zurich.”
“Did you break the trail?” Vincent asked, his thumb gently smoothing over Emma’s knuckles.
“We broke the final node ten minutes ago,” Marco replied, opening the folder.
“The ultimate source of the funds is Marcus Vance.”
Vincent’s fingers stilled.
Marcus Vance was a prominent senator, a man of pristine public reputation, and the former financial advisor to the Romano family.
He was the trusted confidant who had supposedly tried to save the Romano assets after the massacre fifteen years ago.
“Vance,” Vincent breathed, the name tasting like poison on his tongue.
“He didn’t just survive the purge,” Vincent whispered, his mind connecting the long-scattered puzzle pieces.
“He orchestrated it.”
“He wanted the Romano vaults, but he could never access them without the key,” Marco explained, pointing toward the pendant on Emma’s neck.
“The crest on her necklace is not just silver, boss.”
“It houses a micro-engraved quantum encryption cipher that unlocks the family’s global trust accounts.”
“Vance found out she was alive two days ago after an algorithm flagged her face at the restaurant’s security checkpoint.”
“He sent Montgomery to stage a drunken brawl, snatch the necklace, and leave her dead or broken without drawing suspicion to the cartel.”
Vincent’s eyes turned colder than absolute zero.
“He thought he could touch my queen and remain a senator in this city,” Vincent said, his voice terrifyingly calm.
“He has no idea the nightmare he has summoned into his life.”
Suddenly, the steady beep of the heart monitor shifted, speeding up slightly.
A soft, painful moan escaped Emma’s lips as her head moved against the pillow.
Vincent shot to his feet, leaning over the bed, his broad hand instantly cradling her cheek.
“Emma,” he whispered, his voice trembling with a tenderness no mobster in New York would ever believe he possessed.
“Open your eyes, baby. You’re safe. I’ve got you.”
Her long eyelashes fluttered against her pale skin, struggling against the heavy sedative fog.
Slowly, her hazel eyes opened, wide with lingering terror, searching the sterile white ceiling before locking onto Vincent’s face.
She flinched violently, pulling her hand away and pressing herself against the pillows.
“Who... who are you?” Emma whispered, her voice raw and full of fear.
“Where am I? What happened to me?”
Vincent felt a dagger plunge into his chest as he saw the pure panic in her eyes.
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She didn't remember him.
She didn't know who she was.
