Chapter 7 - A Debt Paid in Blood
A month passed after the rainy confrontation outside the studio.
Vincent didn't leave Seattle.
He didn't force himself into Claire’s presence, nor did he call her phone or show up at her house. He obeyed her wish to be left alone—but he couldn't bring himself to board a plane back to Las Vegas.
He stayed in a penthouse apartment downtown, watching her life from a respectful, distant perimeter maintained by Frank and two discreet security officers. He watched her walk to her studio every morning. He watched her laugh with her friends at local coffee shops. He watched her buy fresh flowers at Pike Place Market every Saturday morning.
He loved her from afar, taking silent comfort in knowing she was safe, happy, and whole—even if her happiness no longer included him.
Until Marco Rossi found out.
Marco Rossi was a ruthless, second-generation syndicate boss from Chicago who had been locked in a bloody territorial war with Moretti Enterprises over casino licensing in Northern Nevada for over five years.
For two years, Rossi had been searching for a weakness in Vincent Moretti’s ironclad armor. And three days ago, Rossi’s informants in Seattle confirmed what Vincent was doing in the Pacific Northwest:
He was guarding a woman.
On a chilly Thursday evening at seven o'clock, Claire locked up her architectural studio. The plaza was quiet, illuminated by ambient streetlamps casting long shadows across the brick pavement.
She pulled her coat tightly around herself, walking toward her parked car in the adjoining alleyway.
As she reached into her purse for her keys, the sharp sound of heavy footsteps echoed behind her.
Claire turned around.
Two tall men in dark leather jackets stepped out from the shadows of the alley, blocking her exit. One of them held his right hand tucked suspiciously inside his coat pocket.
“Claire Bennett?” the larger man asked with a cruel, accented sneer.
Claire’s instincts screamed. She took a step back toward the street. “Who are you? What do you want?”
“Mr. Rossi sends his regards,” the man said, pulling a heavy, silenced pistol from his coat. “Your ex-husband ruined our business in Reno. Let’s see how much he enjoys watching his favorite piece get broken.”
Claire’s blood ran cold. The alley seemed to contract around her. Vincent’s past.
Before the man could raise the weapon, a roar of a heavy V8 engine shattered the quiet alley.
A black sedan slammed to a halt at the mouth of the alley. The driver’s door flew open, and Vincent barreled out like an enraged predator, his dark eyes ablaze with a terrifying, lethal fury.
“Get away from her!” Vincent roared.
The gunman turned his weapon toward Vincent, but Vincent didn't slow down. He didn't hesitate. He didn't take cover.
He charged straight into the barrel of the gun.
CRACK.
A muffled gunshot echoed through the narrow alley.
Vincent gasped, a sudden, violent jolt racking his body as a high-caliber bullet tore into his upper left chest, right near his shoulder. Blood exploded across his white shirt.
Claire screamed in pure horror. “VINCENT!”
Despite the fatal wound, Vincent didn't fall. Driven by sheer, unadulterated adrenaline and a primal urge to protect the woman he loved, he closed the distance, slamming his broad shoulder into the gunman’s chest, crashing both of them into the brick wall.
Vincent grabbed the man’s wrist, twisting it until the bones cracked loudly. The gun clattered to the wet pavement. Vincent slammed a heavy fist into the gunman’s jaw, knocking him unconscious instantly.
The second man, terrified by the sheer ferocity of the wounded giant, turned and ran down the alley, vanishing into the night.
Vincent stood swaying in the middle of the alley, his left hand clutched against his blood-drenched chest. Crimson liquid leaked rapidly through his fingers, pooling onto the cold cobblestones beneath his boots.
“Vincent!” Claire rushed to his side, catching him as his knees finally gave out.
She lowered him to the ground, pressing both of her hands frantically against his chest wound. The metallic smell of hot blood filled the air.
“Claire...” Vincent rasped, his face turning deathly pale, his dark eyes struggling to focus on her face.
“Don't speak! Don't speak!” Claire cried, her hands slick with his blood, tears spilling over her eyelashes for the first time in two years. “Help! Somebody help! Call 911!”
Vincent reached up with a blood-stained hand, gently touching her cheek. His grip was weak, trembling, devoid of strength.
“Are you... are you okay?” he whispered, his breath coming in shallow, wet gasps. “Did he... touch you?”
“I’m fine! I’m fine, you idiot!” Claire sobbed, pressing harder against his chest to stop the bleeding. “Why did you do that?! Why did you jump in front of a gun?!”
Vincent squeezed his eyes shut as a wave of agony washed over him, a faint, sad smile touching his pale lips.
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“Two years ago... I wasn't there when you bled,” he whispered, his voice fading into a barely audible rasp. “Today... I get to bleed for you.”
His hand slipped from her cheek, dropping limply to the wet pavement, and his dark eyes rolled back as darkness claimed him.
