Chapter 8 - The Aftermath of the Storm
Hannah lowered the skillet slowly, staring from Vincent to the empty, quiet stairwell.
"Are you... are you okay?" she breathed, her voice trembling slightly.
Vincent dusted off his sleeve, his terrifying aura vanishing as quickly as it had appeared, replaced once again by the calm, composed man who had sat in booth four earlier that evening.
"I'm fine, Hannah," Vincent said smoothly. "Just a minor tenant dispute. It's been resolved."
"Resolved?" Hannah repeated, her eyes darting to the corner where the thugs had dropped an iron pipe. "Vincent, those men were Marcone’s collectors. They've been threatening half the building for months. If you hit them, Marcone is going to retaliate—"
"Marcone is going to do precisely what I tell him to do," Vincent interrupted, his tone leaving zero room for argument. "By tomorrow morning, Marcone will be working as a night watchman in a gravel pit in upstate New York. You won't have to worry about rent, collectors, or landlords ever again."
Hannah stared at him, overwhelmed by the casual, terrifying magnitude of his power. "You can't just upend an entire criminal enterprise because of a late-night visit, Vincent. That’s... that’s insane."
"In my line of work, Mrs. Miller, insanity is just efficient management," Vincent replied with a faint smirk.
He walked back inside the apartment, picking up his wet overcoat from the armchair.
Hannah followed him into the small hallway, her heart hammering against her ribs. As he slid his arms into the coat, she reached out and gently touched his wrist.
The touch was light, but it stopped him dead in his tracks.
"Thank you," she whispered, looking up into his slate-gray eyes. "For bringing Sophie back. For protecting us tonight. You didn't have to do any of it."
"I did," Vincent corrected softly, looking down at her hand on his wrist. "From the moment your daughter marched into Belladonna’s and told me I looked unhappy, I didn't really have a choice in the matter."
Hannah smiled, a warm, genuine expression that reached all the way to her eyes. "She’s a very persuasive negotiator."
"Clearly." Vincent hesitated for a second, then reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a sleek, black metallic business card embossed with a single silver crest. He pressed it into her hand. "My direct number. Not my office. Not my secretary. Call me if anyone—landlord, creditor, or otherwise—ever looks at this building the wrong way again."
Hannah looked down at the card, running her thumb over the raised metal. "Vincent... I can't accept this. We live in two completely different worlds."
"Worlds intersect, Hannah," Vincent said quietly, stepping closer. "Sometimes they do it because of a bus accident, a sleeping babysitter, and a five-dollar cab fare."
He leaned down—just slightly—and pressed a gentle, lingering kiss to her cheek. The scent of rain, cedar, and amber clung to him like a second skin.
May you like
"Good night, Hannah," he murmured against her ear. "I'll make sure Rebecca schedules our second date properly next time."
Before she could form a reply, Vincent turned, opened the door, and stepped out into the stairwell, disappearing into the night as silently as he had arrived.
