Chapter 2 - The Breach at Mason Street
The speedometer of the black Escalade pushed past ninety miles per hour as I ran three red lights along Ogden Avenue. Rain smashed against the windshield in violent sheets, the wipers slapping in a frantic, useless rhythm. Beside me, Nico clutched the grab handle with one hand and racked the slide of his SIG Sauer with the other.
“South Mason is five blocks down,” Nico said, his voice clipped and strained above the roar of the twin-turbo V8. “If Marcus Kane or Frankie’s crew is inside that house, Boss, you need to let me take point. You’re the head of the Moretti family. You don’t walk into a blind breach for an unknown kid.”
“Shut up, Nico,” I growled, my knuckles white on the leather steering wheel.
My phone sat in the cup holder between us. Screen dark. No fourth message.
mamas not moving now. hes coming to the closet.
Those eight words were burning holes in my chest. I didn't care about syndicate territories, I didn't care about Frankie Vane’s route, and I certainly didn't care about my own life. I only saw a little girl in the dark, listening to heavy footsteps coming toward her door, praying that the stranger with the secret phone number was real.
I threw the Escalade into a hard left, the heavy tires screaming against the slick asphalt as we skidded onto South Mason Street.
It was a narrow, neglected block lined with cracked sidewalks and dark, dilapidated homes. Halfway down, a solitary porch light flickered behind a wild, overgrown lawn. A small, wood-frame house painted a faded sage green.
parked two doors down, cutting the headlights. The street was dead silent except for the drum of the rain.
“No sirens,” Nico whispered, scanning the dark windows. “No cops. Just a rusted pickup in the driveway.”
I pulled my heavy wool coat open, drawing the custom Kimber .45 from my shoulder holster. “Stay behind me. If anyone comes out that front door with a weapon, kill them. But if there’s a child in there, you shield her with your body.”
“Understood,” Nico said softly, his skepticism completely evaporating into the cold reality of a breach.
We stepped out into the pouring rain, moving like shadows across the soggy lawn. As we reached the front porch, I saw the wooden frame of the screen door was splintered, resting at a crooked angle. The main door was ajar by two inches.
Inside, through the narrow crack, came a sound that made every drop of blood in my body turn to liquid fire.
It was a man’s low, heavy grunt, followed by the dull, sickening thud of a heavy boot striking soft flesh.
“Get up, you miserable bitch,” a raspy, slurred voice snarled from the living room. “Get up and tell me where you hid the money, or I swear to God I’ll go pull that brat out of the wall and break her arm in front of you!”
A weak, agonizing wheeze answered him—a woman struggling simply to force air into punctured lungs.
I didn't wait for Nico. I didn't call for backup.
I kicked the front door with four hundred pounds of raw, unadulterated momentum.
The heavy oak door shattered off its hinges, flying inward and slamming into the wall with a thunderous crack. I strode into the hallway like a demon unleashed from the belly of hell, my weapon raised, my eyes taking in the nightmare in less than a second.
The living room was a war zone. Overturned lamps, shattered glass, and torn upholstery littered the carpet.
Lying near the hallway archway was a woman. Her blonde hair was soaked in blood, her pale face battered beyond recognition, her body curled into a fragile, protective ball. Standing over her was a burly, sweat-drenched man in a filthy undershirt, holding a heavy leather belt in his right hand and a cheap revolver tucked into his waistband.
And in the dark corner of the hallway, a small closet door was standing wide open.
A little girl—no older than five or six—was being dragged out of the closet by her thin wrist. She was wearing faded pink pajamas covered in small yellow ducklings, her eyes wide with a terror so profound it transcended tears.
“What the fuck—!” the man bellowed, his bloodshot eyes tearing away from the child as he reached frantically for the revolver at his hip.
He never touched the trigger.
I closed the distance between us in two long strides, grabbing the barrel of his revolver with my left hand and driving the butt of my heavy Kimber directly into his nose.
Cartilage crushed under the force of the blow. The man screamed, staggering backward, but I didn't give him room to breathe. I grabbed his greasy shirt, slammed him face-first into the plaster wall, and drove a brutal knee into his ribs.
Crack.
He collapsed to his knees, gasping for air, blood pouring from his shattered face.
“Vincent!” Nico yelled from the doorway, his gun covering the rear hall. “Clear! No one else in the house!”
I stood over the monster, my chest heaving, the barrel of my gun pressed flat against the back of his neck. My finger tightened on the trigger. One pound of pressure, and his brain would paint the wallpaper. He was a scumbag who beat women and terrified children. He deserved a bullet.
Then a soft, breathless gasp echoed from the floor behind me.
“P-please…”
I froze.
I looked down. The little girl in the duckling pajamas had scrambled over the ruined carpet, her tiny arms wrapping fiercely around her unconscious mother’s neck. She was shaking so violently her teeth were chattering, but her tear-streaked face turned up toward me.
She looked at my dark coat, my blood-stained knuckles, and the deadly weapon in my hand.
“Are you… are you the man from the phone?” she whispered, her small voice trembling in the dark.
The murderous rage inside me flickered, replaced by an overwhelming, painful ache. I lowered the gun, engaging the safety with a soft click, and shoved it back into my holster.
I took a slow step back from the groaning man on the floor. “Nico.”
“Boss?”
“Zip-tie this piece of shit,” I said, my voice dead and cold as winter ice. “Throw him in the trunk of the Escalade. If he makes a sound before we reach the estate, break his other arm.”
“With pleasure,” Nico growled, stepping forward with heavy plastic restraints.
I dropped to one knee in front of the little girl, keeping my distance so I wouldn't frighten her. I took off my heavy wool coat, leaving myself in my dark vest and rolled-up sleeves, and held the warm fabric out toward her.
“My name is Vincent, Lily,” I said, lowering my voice to a gentle, quiet rumble. “You were very brave. You saved your mama.”
Lily looked at the coat, then at my face. Slowly, tentatively, she let go of her mother’s shoulder and took a small, hesitant step toward me. She reached out with a tiny, bruised hand and grabbed the edge of my sleeve, clinging to it like a lifeline.
“Is mama dead?” she whimpered, a tear finally breaking free and trailing through the dirt on her cheek.
I reached out, gently pressing two fingers against the side of the woman’s neck. Beneath the pale, bruised skin, a faint, erratic pulse tapped against my fingertips.
“No, sweetheart,” I whispered, lifting my eyes to meet Lily’s tearful gaze. “She’s breathing. And I promise you, nobody is ever going to hurt either of you again.”
May you like
I scooped the small, trembling girl into my left arm, wrapping my wool coat securely around her shoulders. Then, leaning down, I slid my right arm beneath her mother’s back and knees, lifting the broken woman gently into my arms.
As I walked out of the green house into the pouring rain, Lily buried her tiny face into the crook of my neck, her small hands clutching my shirt for dear life.
