Chapter 4 - The Shadow over Newark
The air in the grand study turned arctic.
Vincent didn't shout. He didn't smash his glass or curse. He simply stood beside the wrought-iron table, his hands resting lightly on the back of his chair, staring at Paulie with an expression so terrifyingly empty that I felt cold just sitting near him.
"He asked for the child?" Vincent murmured softly.
"Word for word, Boss," Paulie said, keeping his eyes lowered. "Dominic’s got a mole somewhere in the Bellini house. He knows Dr. Reed was compromised by a kid in the kitchen. He thinks the child is holding some kind of physical evidence—the original lab work or a recording."
"Dominic is a brute who thinks like an alley dog," Vincent said, his voice dropping into a dangerous whisper. "He thinks if he gets the child, he gets the lever to force me back to the negotiating table."
He turned to look at me.
I was sitting frozen in my chair, the porcelain coffee cup trembling violently in my hands. The thought of Dominic Bellini—a man whose reputation for cruelty was whispered about in horror by the kitchen staff—even knowing my daughter’s name made me feel sick to my stomach.
Vincent walked over to me, stepping between me and Paulie. He knelt down beside my chair, bringing his gray eyes level with mine.
"Nora," he said gently, taking the shaking cup from my hands and setting it on the table. "Look at me."
I forced myself to meet his gaze.
"No one is touching Lily," Vincent said with absolute conviction. "Do you hear me? Dominic Bellini will die before he gets within ten miles of this house. You have my word on my father’s grave."
"He... he has thirty men at the pier, Mr. Moretti," I whispered, tears brimming in my eyes. "What if he comes here?"
Vincent let out a short, dark laugh. "This house is an iron fortress, Nora. There are twelve armed men on these grounds twenty-four hours a day, bulletproof glass on every window, and a panic room beneath the cellar that can withstand a missile strike. You and Lily are safer here than in a military bunker."
He stood up and turned back to Paulie, his tone instantly shifting back to business.
"Call Frank Cavallo in Brooklyn," Vincent ordered. "Tell him to mobilize three squads. I want Pier 17 surrounded by three o'clock. Shut down the access roads, lock down the tugboats, and make sure Dominic’s crew can't get a single container out of that yard."
"You taking the hit men, Boss?" Paulie asked.
"No," Vincent replied coldly. "Dominic wants a meeting. He thinks he’s playing chess. I’m going to go to Newark tonight and show him he’s playing with fire."
"Mr. Moretti, wait," I said, standing up impulsively.
Vincent stopped, looking back at me in surprise.
"You can't go alone," I stammered, my cheeks flushing. "It's a trap. Dominic knows you'll protect... protect your people. He wants to draw you out into the open."
A soft, rare expression flickered across Vincent’s harsh features—something that looked dangerously like affection.
"He does want to draw me out, Nora," Vincent said softly. "But Dominic made a fatal strategic error today."
"What error?"
"He assumed I was fighting him over money," Vincent said, stepping closer to me. "When a man fights over money, he calculates his risks. He retreats when the cost gets too high."
He reached out, his long fingers gently tucking a stray lock of dark hair behind my ear. His touch was electric, sending a shiver down my spine.
"How does a man fight when he's protecting something he actually cares about, Nora?" he murmured.
I couldn't speak. My throat was completely locked.
"He doesn't calculate," Vincent answered his own question. "He destroys everything in his path."
He pulled his hand back, turned on his heel, and walked out of the conservatory, Paulie trailing quickly behind him.
I stood alone among the palms and blooming orchids, my heart racing not just from fear for my daughter, but from the terrifying, undeniable realization that I was falling in love with a crime boss.
By ten o'clock that evening, the Moretti estate felt like a compound preparing for siege.
Heavy iron gates at the perimeter were locked, floodlights illuminated the manicured lawns, and heavy black SUVs patrolled the winding driveway every fifteen minutes.
Inside the second-floor suite, I sat on the canopy bed, watching Lily sleep. She was holding Button under one arm, her little face peaceful and serene, completely oblivious to the war raging across the Hudson River.
A soft knock came at the door.
I jumped, then quickly composed myself. "Come in."
Elena stepped inside, carrying a silver tray with a pot of chamomile tea and a small plate of shortbread cookies.
"I thought you might need something to settle your nerves, Miss Nora," Elena said kindly, setting the tray on the nightstand.
"Thank you, Elena," I said, offering a tight smile. "Is there... any news from Newark?"
Elena sighed softly, seating herself on the velvet chair near the window. "Marco called twenty minutes ago. Mr. Moretti arrived at Pier 17. He took thirty of our best men with him. They've cut the power to the dockyard."
"Is there shooting?" I whispered, looking toward the window as if I could see the fire across the dark river.
"Not yet," Elena said. "Mr. Moretti walked onto the pier alone to speak with Dominic."
My blood ran cold. "He went in alone?"
"That is how the Boss operates," Elena explained, her voice full of respect. "He never hides behind his men. He gives his enemies one chance to surrender peacefully. If they refuse..." She drifted off, shaking her head.
I couldn't sit still anymore. I stood up and walked to the French doors, opening them slightly to let the cold February night air flush the heat from my cheeks. The rain had stopped, leaving the night sky clear, black, and starless.
Far off in the distance, past the twinkling skyline of Manhattan, I could see the faint yellow glow of industrial floodlights rising from the shipping yards of New Jersey.
Please, God, I prayed silently, wrapping my arms around myself against the chill. Keep him safe. Don't let him die for us.
It was nearly 2:00 AM when the sound of heavy engines echoed up the driveway.
I ran to the window. Three black Cadillacs pulled up to the front entrance, their tires spraying wet gravel.
The door to the lead car opened, and Vincent Moretti stepped out into the floodlights.
He was alive.
My hands flew to my mouth, a sob of pure relief escaping my lips. But as he stepped closer to the porch light, my relief turned into a knot of fresh anxiety.
Vincent’s dark suit jacket was gone. His crisp white shirt was torn at the shoulder, stained with dark grease and spots of crimson blood. His knuckles were bruised, and a sharp cut ran along his left cheekbone.
He didn't look like a corporate executive anymore. He looked like a titan who had just crawled out of hell.
I didn't wait for permission. I turned, ran out of the second-floor suite, and hurried down the grand spiral staircase as fast as my feet could carry me.
I reached the grand foyer just as the massive front doors swung open.
Vincent stepped inside, tossing a blood-spattered leather coat to one of his guards. Marco walked behind him, holding a wrapped bandage over his own arm.
Vincent stopped when he saw me standing at the base of the stairs.
His gray eyes met mine, intense and burning through the shadows of the hall.
May you like
"Nora," he breathed, his voice hoarse. "What are you doing down here?"
I didn't answer. I couldn't help myself. I crossed the marble floor, ignoring the guards, ignoring Marco, ignoring the blood on his shirt, and threw my arms around his neck, burying my face into his shoulder.
