Chapter 2 - The House of Echoes
The rain fell harder as Vincent’s black town car slid to a halt outside the decrepit brick tenement building above the old Italian bakery on 4th Street. The streetlights flickered, casting long, bruised shadows across the cracked pavement.
The front door was splintered, hanging off a single brass hinge.
Vincent stepped out of the vehicle, his leather shoes clicking against the wet concrete. He didn't wait for his enforcers. He walked alone, his posture straight, his eyes scanning the dark, narrow hallway. The smell hit him before he reached the second-floor landing—the metallic, copper tang of fresh blood mixed with the sweet, fading scent of expensive perfume.
Elena’s perfume.
He pushed the door open. The apartment was a battlefield. A floor lamp lay shattered in the corner, its porcelain base smashed to pieces. Books, framed photographs, and cushions were strewn haphazardly across the floor. The dining table—set neatly with two wine glasses and a single candle that had long since melted down into a puddle of wax—was overturned.
And there, lying beside the wreckage of the table, was Elena.
Vincent crossed the room in two long strides, dropping to his knees beside her. He didn't care about the blood soaking into the knees of his trousers. He pressed two fingers against the side of her throat.
A faint, thready pulse beat against his fingertips. Alive. Barely.
Her face was bruised, her dark hair matted with blood from a severe blow to the temple, and her breathing was shallow and rattling. But she was breathing.
"Vinnie," a low voice rasped from the doorway.
Marco, his most trusted lieutenant, stepped into the room, holding a heavy iron fireplace poker he’d found by the hearth. "We checked the back alley. No bodies, no tracks other than the girl's. Whoever did this was professional. They didn't linger. They knew what they came for, and they left when they heard the kid."
Vincent gently brushed a strand of hair away from Elena’s bruised forehead. His touch was lighter than anyone who knew his reputation would ever believe possible. Then, slowly, he raised his head. The darkness in his eyes was absolute.
"They didn't come to rob her," Vincent said, his voice terrifyingly calm. "People who want money don't smash every piece of furniture in the house. They were searching for something."
"What?" Marco asked, stepping closer.
"They were looking for the ledger," Vincent said, standing up to his full height. He looked around the devastated room, noting the empty bookshelf, the slashed mattress in the bedroom, the torn upholstery. "The ledger containing the port shipping manifests from the North Dock. The ones the Moretti family has been trying to get their hands on for six months."
Marco’s jaw tightened. "The Morettis? Salvador Moretti swore a blood oath at the Commission table last month. He said the docks were split fifty-fifty."
"Salvador is a liar," Vincent said, walking toward the window that looked out over the alley. He picked up a small, metallic object resting on the windowsill—a silver cufflink bearing a distinct, engraved crest.
A rampant lion holding a broken sword.
May you like
The crest of the Moretti family.
"Get the car ready," Vincent said, slipping the cufflink into his pocket. "We're going to pay Salvador a visit. And this time, we aren't knocking."
