Chapter 3 - The Cold Judgment in the Rain
The collision was brutal.
Maverick grabbed Marco’s wrist, twisting it upward with enough force to shatter the joint. A sickening crack echoed through the lounge, followed by Marco’s high-pitched scream of agony. The revolver clattered harmlessly across the wooden floor, sliding right up to the toe of Don Salvatore’s handmade leather shoes.
Salvatore didn't even flinch. He didn't glance at the gun.
Instead, before the violence could spray across the room, Salvatore stepped smoothly between the struggling men and little Emily. He reached down with his massive, ring-adorned hand and gently placed it over her eyes, shielding her from the sight of blood.
"Maverick," Salvatore commanded coldly. "Take him down to the cellar. Secure his friends who work the East Ward. No one leaves this building tonight without my explicit permission."
"Got it, Boss," Maverick growled, pinning Marco’s face to the floorboards while another guard slapped heavy steel handcuffs onto his wrists.
Marco was dragged away, his bloody face trailing across the wood, his pathetic begging echoing down the concrete stairwell until the thick steel door slammed shut, cutting off the noise entirely.
The lounge returned to a heavy, stunned silence.
Salvatore lowered his hand from Emily’s eyes. He crouched down on one knee in front of her. For a man who controlled three shipping ports, four banks, and a private army of two hundred men, crouching on a wet floor in a seven-thousand-dollar suit was an unthinkable sight. His men watched in absolute awe.
"Emily," Salvatore said, his dark eyes looking directly into hers. "You did very well tonight."
Emily looked at the floor where the money lay spread out. "Is... is that enough to pay the debt?"
Salvatore picked up the crumpled twelve dollars and seventy-five cents. He picked up the crayon drawing. Very carefully, he folded the drawing, slid it back into the thin envelope, and placed the money inside with it.
Then, he placed the envelope into the breast pocket of his tailored jacket, right over his heart.
"Your mother doesn't owe me a single cent, Emily," Salvatore said softly. "In fact... it turns out my organization owes your mother a very large debt."
"She's sick," Emily said, her lip trembling for the first time since she had walked through the rain. The brave armor she had worn to save her mother was beginning to crack now that the immediate danger was gone. "She hasn't opened her eyes since yesterday morning. She told me to sleep, but... but I knew the bad man was coming back tonight. So I took the paper from under her mattress and ran."
Salvatore’s jaw clenched so hard the muscles in his cheek bulged.
A woman lying unconscious in a freezing apartment, left to die after being battered by one of his own men, while her seven-year-old daughter braved a torrential storm to trade her tiny savings for her mother's life.
Salvatore stood up. He reached into the coat closet near the entrance, pulled out his heavy dark cashmere trench coat, and draped it gently around Emily’s shoulders. The oversized coat swallowed her whole, wrapping her in warmth and the faint scent of cedar and expensive tobacco.
"Leo," Salvatore called out to his personal driver, a quiet, sharp-eyed man standing by the door.
"Yes, Don Salvatore?"
"Bring the armored Bentley to the front entrance. Turn the heat up to maximum."
"Right away, Boss."
Salvatore looked around the room at his remaining lieutenants. "The rest of you stay here. If Marco’s crew tries to move any money out of the East Ward, break their legs and throw them in the vault. I’m going to see what my name was used for tonight."
He reached down and gently scooped Emily up into his powerful arms. She felt impossibly light, like a tiny bird shivering against his chest. She rested her wet, exhausted head against his shoulder, her small fingers clutching the lapel of his suit jacket.
"We're going home to your mommy, Emily," Salvatore whispered as he pushed open the front doors of The Velvet Lounge.
The thunderstorm raged outside, the heavy rain sheeting off the neon signs of the city. But as Salvatore stepped out into the dark night carrying the little girl, his private security team lined the sidewalk, holding black umbrellas over them like a shield of iron and silk.
May you like
The car door opened. Salvatore slid into the plush leather back seat with Emily beside him.
"Drive to 4th Street," Salvatore commanded the driver, his voice turning as dark as the storm outside. "And call Dr. Mercer. Tell him if he isn't at that tenement in ten minutes with a full trauma kit, I'll shut down his private clinic by sunrise."
