Chapter 2 - The Uniform Comes Off
The sterile white lights of St. Jude Memorial Hospital hummed overhead, a sound that felt like a drill boring directly into Vincent Moretti’s skull.
In the private consultation room, Detective Miller of the Columbus Police Department closed his notebook with a sharp snap. His eyes swept over Vincent, taking in the dust-covered designer suit, the exhaustion etched into the sharp lines of his face, and the quiet, unnatural stillness that radiated from him. To Detective Miller, Vincent looked like a devastated young father whose world had just collapsed. He saw a man who worked as a corporate driver—a humble employee grappling with a nightmare he couldn't comprehend.
He had no idea that beneath that tailored jacket rested the shoulder holster of a man who controlled every illegal dock, financial syndicate, and underground logistics network from Chicago to Pittsburgh.
"Mr. Moretti, I need you to understand the gravity of what the pediatric staff found," Detective Miller said, lowering his voice. "This wasn't just ordinary fatigue or a typical post-birth complication. Your wife, Emily, was suffering from acute, severe dehydration, malnutrition, and a dangerously high fever that had clearly been ignored for days. And the infant... little Noah... his blood work shows signs of deliberate withholding of fluids and nourishment. Someone in that house was starving them."
Vincent’s jaw tightened. A muscle jumped in his cheek. Every drop of blood in his body felt like it was turning to liquid ice.
Deliberate.
He had trusted them. When Emily’s uncle, Arthur, and aunt, Martha, had smiled at the front door seven days ago and promised to watch over his wife and newborn son while he flew to Chicago to crush a mutiny in his ranks, Vincent had believed them. He had even left an envelope containing ten thousand dollars on the kitchen counter for groceries and emergencies.
Instead, they had turned his home into a garbage dump, gorged themselves on takeout while playing cards in front of the television, and left his postpartum wife and seven-day-old son to slowly perish in a locked bedroom.
"Where are Arthur and Martha now?" Vincent asked. His voice was terrifyingly calm—so quiet that Detective Miller had to lean forward to catch the words.
"They're still at your residence," Miller replied, shaking his head in disgust. "Our patrol units secured the scene. They tried to play dumb, claiming Emily was 'just being dramatic' and that babies cry all the time. Standard negligence defense. But once the forensic medical report is finalized tomorrow morning, we're looking at felony child endangerment and criminal neglect charges. Possibly worse, depending on what the full toxicology panel shows."
Vincent stood up slowly. He smoothed the lapels of his jacket, adjusting his cuffs with mechanical precision.
"Detective," Vincent said, his dark eyes locking onto the cop with an intensity that made Miller instinctively shift in his seat. "I need to go check on my son and wife."
"Go ahead, Mr. Moretti. Room 412 for your wife, NICU isolation for the baby. But don't leave the hospital. We'll need follow-up statements."
"I won't go anywhere," Vincent whispered.
He walked out of the consultation room, but he didn't turn toward the elevators leading to the upper floors. Instead, he walked down the dimly lit corridor toward the emergency exit stairwell, pushing open the heavy steel door and stepping into the concrete stairwell where the hospital cameras couldn't see him.
He reached inside his jacket, pulled out an encrypted satellite burner phone, and dialed a single three-digit speed dial.
It rang once.
"Boss," a gruff, gravelly voice answered instantly. It was Salvatore, his veteran second-in-command who managed the Ohio operations from a shell corporation downtown.
"Sal," Vincent said, his voice dropping into the cold, jagged tone that made hardened killers shake in their boots. "The police are at my house investigating Emily and Noah."
A heavy silence fell over the line, followed immediately by the sound of a fist slamming against a desk. "Who do we hit, Boss? Give me names. Arthur and Martha? Do you want them in the river by midnight?"
"No," Vincent replied, his eyes fixed on the blank concrete wall of the stairwell. "The police want to arrest them. Let the cops put them in handcuffs. But I want every bank account, every phone record, every debt, and every dark secret Arthur and Martha have accumulated over the last twenty years laid out on my tablet within one hour. Find out who they owe money to. Find out why they were so desperate for cash that they neglected my family."
"Consider it done, Boss," Sal muttered. "And the kid? And Emily?"
"They're fighting," Vincent said, his voice cracking just a fraction before steeling over again. "If either of them doesn't make it... Arthur and Martha won't make it to a jail cell. Do you understand me?"
"Crystal clear, Vincent. We're moving now."
May you like
Vincent hung up, slipped the phone back into his pocket, and took a deep breath. The chauffeur mask was gone. The quiet, polite employee of the electronics firm had ceased to exist the moment he saw his son lying limp and burning with fever.
The underworld had forgotten who ruled the Midwest. Tonight, they were going to remember.
