Chapter 13 - Cracks in the Armor
The warning burnished into my mind as Vincent’s sedan sped south along FDR Drive, the wet asphalt reflecting the neon glow of Manhattan’s skyline like streaks of spilled ink.
"Who gave you that note?" Vincent demanded, his knuckles white against the steering wheel.
"One of the banquet servers," I said, looking out the passenger window into the black churn of the East River. "A young girl. Latina, early twenties. She had an anchor tattoo on her inner wrist—the same mark they use at the Saint Teresa shelter in Mott Haven."
Vincent’s jaw tightened. "One of the applicants."
"Elena," I realized, pulling up the digital roster on my phone with trembling fingers. "Elena Morales. Twenty-two years old. Left an abusive boyfriend two months ago. She was third on the enrollment list for the pastry prep track. She was working the banquet shift tonight."
Vincent grabbed his car phone, punching a three-digit speed dial. "Frankie. Get three of the boys to the East 138th warehouse now. Don't go inside. Secure the perimeter, check the loading bays, and tell me if the lights are on."
He hung up without waiting for a reply, cutting the wheel hard to cross the Willis Avenue Bridge into the Bronx. The rain was turning into sleet, pinging violently against the windshield like thrown gravel.
"She wouldn't have handed me that note unless she saw something she wasn't supposed to see," I said, my heart climbing into my throat. "Victoria Vance doesn't wait for Friday. She never intended to let the legal injunction play out in court."
"Of course she didn't," Vincent said grimly. "If the building burns tonight, there is no lease to fight over. The insurance pays out to the titleholder of record, the city clears the rubble, and Victoria gets her clean slate for the high-rise rezoning."
Five minutes later, the sedan screeched around the corner of East 138th Street.
The street was dark. The city streetlights on the block had been knocked out, their glass casings shattered on the asphalt. Outside the warehouse, two dark shadows were standing near the service alley—Frankie and another of Vincent’s trusted men from the Brooklyn docks.
Vincent killed the headlights and coasted the car to a halt against the curb. "Stay in the car, Amelia."
"I am not sitting in the car while our school burns," I snapped, grabbing the door handle.
"Amelia!" Vincent caught my arm. His grip was fierce, but when I looked into his eyes, there was no patronizing control—only a raw, desperate fear that made my breath catch. "If I lose you," he whispered, the words tearing from his chest, "the diner, the city, none of it matters. Do you understand me? Nothing matters."
"You're not going to lose me," I said, softening my voice, placing my hand over his. "Because we go together. And we don't let them take what we built."
He stared at me for three long heartbeats, then exhaled slowly through his teeth, reaching under his arm to draw a heavy matte-black Colt .45 from his shoulder holster. He checked the chamber with a quiet, practiced click.
"Stay behind my shoulder," he commanded. "If I say run, you run to the car and hit the gas. Promise me."
"I promise."
We stepped out into the freezing sleet. Frankie hurried over, his coat collar pulled high against the wet wind.
"Boss," Frankie whispered, keeping low. "Padlocks on the rear bay were torched with an oxy-acetylene torch ten minutes ago. We smelled gasoline coming from the basement air vents. But there's someone inside. We heard shouting—sounded like a girl."
"Elena," I gasped.
May you like
Vincent didn't waste another second. "Frankie, take the alley door. Keep it open. Nobody leaves this building alive if they strike a match."
Vincent kicked the side service door open with a brutal, splintering crash that shook the rusted frame. We moved into the darkness, the suffocating stench of raw gasoline and kerosene hitting us like a physical blow.
