CHAPTER 6
The room went dead silent, the heavy air thick with an unspoken horror that made it difficult to draw a breath. I stared at Frank, trying to process the words, but my brain refused to accept the reality of what he said.
Marcus hadn't just been beating me out of uncontrolled rage or alcohol-fueled frustration over the last few years. He had been planning to sell me off like a piece of property to clear his own disgusting gambling debts.
"Repeat that," Vincent commanded, his voice unnaturally calm, which only made the atmosphere ten times more terrifying.
"The Russians run an illegal underground ring out of a docks warehouse in South Brooklyn," Frank explained quickly. "Marcus signed a contract last Tuesday. He was supposed to deliver her to them by midnight tonight."
A wave of nausea hit me hard, and I clutched my stomach with my right hand, feeling utterly disgusted and terrified. If I hadn't called Vincent last night, if I hadn't used that black card, my life would have ended tonight.
Vincent slammed the folder shut with a loud crack that sounded like a gunshot in the quiet, carpeted room. The smooth, refined demeanor he usually maintained shattered completely, revealing the apex predator underneath.
"Where is the Russian commander?" Vincent asked, turning toward the window as he buttoned his sleeve cuffs back down.
"Dmitri is currently at the warehouse near Pier 42," Frank replied without hesitation. "He’s expecting Marcus to arrive within the hour with the cargo."
"Gather forty men," Vincent ordered, his dark eyes reflecting the grey rain pouring down outside the thick glass. "We are going to pay Dmitri a personal visit before his evening schedule begins."
"Wait!" I called out, pushing myself up against the plush velvet pillows despite the sharp ache in my shoulder.
Vincent paused near the door, turning his head slightly to look back at me over his tailored shoulder. His expression was cold, but the intensity in his eyes softened just a fraction when he met my gaze.
"You can't go there," I pleaded, my voice trembling with genuine concern for the man who had rescued me. "They are dangerous people, Vincent. Marcus always said the Brighton Beach crew kills anyone who crosses them."
Vincent slowly walked back to the edge of the bed, reaching down to gently pat my uninjured hand resting on the duvet.
"Lena," he said quietly, a small, dark smile touching the corners of his lips for a brief moment. "The Brighton Beach crew operates in this city because I allow them to pay taxes to my family."
He bent down until his face was inches from mine, his warm breath fanning across my cold cheek.
"They forgot who owns the streets they walk on," Vincent whispered, his tone absolute and chilling. "Tonight, I am going to remind them."
He stood up straight, turning to Frank with an order that left no room for error or second-guessing.
"Keep four armed guards at her door at all times," Vincent commanded. "If anyone without a security clearance steps onto this floor, shoot them first and ask questions later."
"Yes, Mr. Moretti," Frank replied, pulling out his encrypted phone to initiate the immediate lockdown protocols.
Vincent walked out of the room, his heavy leather shoes clicking against the polished hardwood floor outside in the hallway. The door clicked shut, leaving me alone in the massive, silent room with the sound of falling rain.
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I lay back down, pulling the heavy wool blanket up to my chin as my heart pounded against my ribs like a trapped bird. Outside the window, the grey sky was growing darker as night quickly descended over New York City.
I looked at the small brass clock on the nightstand; it was five in the evening now. Somewhere across the river, a war was about to start because of a waitress who dropped a cup of coffee.
