Chapter 3 - The Wrath of MorettiMarcus wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, reaching into his waistband to pull out a small snub-nosed revolver he kept for his underground gambling debts.
"Stay right there," Marcus warned me, cocking the gun's hammer as he strutted toward the entryway. "Let's see who this idiot is."
He yanked the front door open.
"Who the hell are you—"
The sentence was never finished.
A heavy, leather-gloved hand shot through the open doorway like a steel piston, grabbing Marcus by his throat and lifting his entire six-foot frame off the floor.
Before Marcus could pull the trigger, two massive men in tactical suits surged into the apartment. One disarmed Marcus with a swift, brutal wrist twist that snapped his fingers, sending the revolver clattering across the hardwood floor. The second man swept Marcus's legs out, slamming him face-first onto the floor with a sickening thud.
The heavy front door clicked shut.
Stepping past his armed men, walking unhurriedly into the center of my living room, was Vincent Moretti.
He wore a tailored charcoal-grey suit, a dark silk tie, and a long wool trench coat that absorbed the ambient light. His dark hair was combed back, his posture immaculate, and his eyes... his eyes were two pools of glacial, terrifying steel.
Vincent didn't look at Marcus, who was squirming and choking on the floor beneath a guard's heavy combat boot.
Vincent looked directly at me.
His eyes swept over my frail form—taking in the torn silk nightgown, the blood pooling on my leg, and the sickening, unnatural angle of my broken left arm.
A muscle twitched violently in Vincent’s jaw. For a fraction of a second, the mask of supreme composure slipped, revealing a dark, terrifying abyss of absolute fury.
He walked over to the sofa, kneeling beside me with extraordinary grace. His large, warm hands reached out, carefully avoiding my injuries, and wrapped a soft, cashmere blanket around my shivering shoulders.
"Lena," Vincent spoke, his voice dropping into a soft, gentle murmur that contrasted wildly with his presence. "I am here."
Tears overflowed my eyes, spilling down my bruised cheeks. "You... you came..."
"I promised you eight minutes," Vincent said softly.
He stood up slowly, turning his back on me as he faced Marcus, who was groaning on the floor.
"Who... who the hell are you?!" Marcus gasped out, coughing up blood against the floorboards. "Do you know who I am?! I have connections in the precinct!"
Vincent looked down at him as if he were a bug on the sole of his shoe.
"My name is Vincent Moretti," he stated calmly.
Marcus froze. Every drop of color drained from his face, leaving him a sickening ash-grey.
"M... Moretti...?" Marcus stammered, his body beginning to tremble violently with pure, primal terror. "No... no, please... it was a domestic argument! She's my wife!"
Vincent stepped forward, bringing the heel of his Italian leather shoe down onto Marcus’s left forearm.
CRACK.
May you like
Marcus let out a high-pitched, agonizing shriek that echoed off the high ceilings.
"She was your wife," Vincent corrected coldly, leaning down until his face was inches from Marcus’s sobbing face. "Now, you don't even exist."
Related Stories
