Chapter 4 - Blood on the Satellite LineThe secure phone hummed with encrypted static before a raspy, gravel-laced laugh echoed through the receiver.
“Vincenzo,” Marcus Vance’s voice purred from across the city. “I hear you had an interesting morning in a dive bar down on Fourth and Elm. Word travels fast in our little town.”
Vincent stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, looking down at the crawling ants of Manhattan traffic. His posture was rigid, every muscle coiled like a spring.
“If you’re calling to comment on my morning routine, Marcus, you’re wasting your expensive minutes,” Vincent replied, his voice a low, lethal purr. “Speak your piece or hang up.”
“Tough as ever,” Marcus chuckled, though there was no humor in it. “Tell me, how is the lovely Norah? Still shaking from her little reunion? It’s a tragedy, really. A delicate flower like that walking around unaccompanied in a city full of wolves. Almost makes a man think you’re losing your grip, Vincent.”
Vincent’s grip on the satellite phone tightened so hard the plastic casing creaked. Across the room, Norah watched him, her heart hammering against her ribs. She could see the dark aura of violence settling over her husband, wrapping around him like a shroud.
“If you ever mention my wife’s name again, Marcus, I won't just burn your shipping warehouses to the ground,” Vincent said, his voice dropping into a register so cold it made the air in the room feel frosty. “I will personally peel your skin off inch by inch and feed it to the stray dogs in Queens. Do we understand each other?”
A heavy silence hung on the line. Marcus was no fool; he knew Vincent Costello kept his promises with terrifying punctuality.
“A bit touchy, aren’t we?” Marcus recovered, clearing his throat. “Fine. Let’s talk business. The docks at Pier 44. My shipments were delayed because your men intercepted my trucks last night. I want them back, Vincent. By midnight, or the peace agreement we signed six months ago is null and void.”
“Your shipments were carrying unregistered firearms through my territory without paying the transit tax,” Vincent retorted smoothly. “They belong to the bottom of the harbor now. If you want to start a war over a box of rusted pistols, Marcus, come find me. I’ll be waiting.”
“You arrogant son of a—”
Vincent clicked the disconnect button, severing the call mid-sentence. He tossed the phone onto the desk with a sharp clack.
He exhaled a long, slow breath, running a hand through his dark hair before turning back to Norah. The lethal intensity vanished from his face in an instant, replaced by a deep, aching tenderness as he walked back over to her.
“Pack a bag,” Vincent said softly, sitting beside her on the sofa and taking her small hands in his massive ones.
“Pack a bag?” Norah echoed, bewildered. “Where are we going?”
“We’re leaving for our estate in Switzerland,” Vincent stated firmly. “Tonight. Marcus is getting desperate, which means he’s dangerous. I won't risk you or the baby in this city while a turf war is brewing.”
Norah pulled her hands away, her jaw setting with a stubbornness that always surprised him.
“No,” she said quietly.
Vincent blinked, staring at her as if she had spoken in a foreign language. “No?”
“I spent years running from Derek, hiding in corners, letting fear dictate every step of my life,” Norah said, her voice growing stronger, fueled by the tiny life growing inside her. “Then I met you, and I learned how to stand in the light. If we run to Switzerland every time some old mob boss rattles his saber, I’m right back where I started. I’m living in a cage, Vincent. Just a bigger, prettier one.”
May you like
Vincent stared at her, stunned. For the first time since they met, he saw the true steel beneath her soft exterior—the exact reason he had fallen in love with her in the first place.
Before he could answer, a deafening explosion rocked the penthouse.
