Chapter 1 - The Wrath of Vincent Vance
The silence inside the Brooklyn café was no longer just quiet; it was lethal. The air grew heavy, thick with the scent of spilled espresso and the sudden, suffocating presence of a man who ruled the city's darkest corners.
Vincent Vance did not look like a man who rushed. He walked forward with a slow, deliberate grace, each step echoing against the hardwood floor like a countdown. His stormy gray eyes remained locked onto the exact spot where Derek’s red, calloused hand met Norah’s pale skin.
"I am going to count to one," Vincent said. His voice was a low, smooth baritone, entirely devoid of emotion, yet it carried the weight of an executioner's blade. "If your hand is still touching her throat when I finish, you will never use that arm again."
Derek, fueled by gin and a lifetime of getting away with being a bully, sneered. He didn't know who Vincent was. To him, this was just another wealthy guy in a fancy suit trying to play the hero. "Mind your own business, pal," Derek snapped, tightening his grip slightly just to prove a point. "This is between me and my girl."
Norah gasped, her vision blurring as the black spots intensified. She looked at Vincent, trying to signal him with her eyes—not for her own safety, but for the tiny, fragile life growing inside her. The baby. She needed him to know.
Vincent saw the terror in her eyes, and he saw her hand clutching her abdomen. In that fraction of a second, the cold calculation in his face fractured, revealing a flash of absolute, unholy rage.
He didn't bother counting.
Before Derek could even blink, Vincent closed the distance between them. His movement was a blur of lethal efficiency. His left hand clamped around Derek’s wrist like a steel vice, twisting it outward with a sickening crack. Derek shrieked as his radius bone snapped under the immense pressure, his grip instantly releasing Norah's throat.
As Norah stumbled backward, coughing and gasping for air, Vincent’s right fist collided with Derek’s jaw. The impact sounded like a car crash. Derek was lifted off his feet, crashing heavily into a nearby display shelf, sending porcelain mugs and bags of coffee beans raining down on his bleeding body.
Vincent didn't stop. He stepped over the debris, his face an emotionless mask once more, and pulled a sleek, silver pistol from his tailored jacket. He pressed the cold barrel directly between Derek’s terrified, wide eyes.
"Vincent, no!" Norah managed to choke out, her voice raspy and raw. She rushed forward, grabbing his arm. "Please... don't do this here. Not in front of everyone. Please."
Vincent’s gaze shifted from Derek to Norah. The moment his eyes fell upon the faint red marks blossoming across her delicate neck, his jaw tightened. But as he felt her trembling hands on his arm, the murderous storm in his chest began to recede, replaced by a fierce, protective instinct. He lowered the gun but kept his foot firmly planted on Derek’s chest.
"Luca," Vincent called out without looking back.
May you like
The second man, who had been guarding the door, stepped forward. "Yes, Boss?"
"Clean this up," Vincent ordered coldly. "Take this piece of trash to the warehouse. He put his hands on my wife. He doesn't get to see the sun tomorrow unless I allow it."
