Chapter 2 - The Visitor at the Gates
The air evacuated my lungs with a sharp, painful hiss.
For one terrifying second, I thought I was hallucinating—a trick of exhaustion, low blood sugar, and psychological trauma playing cruel games with my mind in the belly of a monster’s den. But the broad shoulders, the expensive, ostentatious diamond ring catching the chandelier light, and the arrogant, lopsided smirk plastered across his face were unmistakable.
Julian Vance.
My husband. Or, legally speaking, the man I had fled across state lines under a false name to escape.
He strode into the grand foyer as if he owned the marble beneath his Italian leather shoes, flanked by two of his own enforcers—thugs who looked like they moonlighted as demolition experts. Julian didn't look like a man entering the territory of Chicago’s most feared mafia kingpin; he looked like a landlord coming to collect rent from a delinquent tenant.
"Well, well, well," Julian drawled, his voice carrying that rich, unctuous baritone that used to make my skin crawl. He stopped halfway across the foyer, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his charcoal overcoat. "I was told security in this establishment was airtight, Moretti. Yet here you are, standing in your own foyer, entertaining the hired help."
My arm was still trapped within Vincent’s grip.
Slowly, almost imperceptibly, Vincent shifted his stance. He didn't let go of my wrist. Instead, he placed his massive body slightly in front of mine, shielding my exposed scars from Julian’s immediate line of sight, though his slate-gray eyes remained locked on the newcomer with a predatory stillness.
"Vance," Vincent said, his voice dropping into a register so cold it could have frozen boiling water. "You walk into my home unannounced, past my perimeter guards, and interrupt my morning. You must have a death wish, Julian. Or perhaps you're simply stupid."
Julian let out a short, barking laugh, unfazed by the threat hanging heavy in the air. He adjusted his silk tie and took another step forward.
"Spare me the theatricals, Vincent. We're businessmen. I'm here on a professional matter regarding the dock shipments coming in from Naples next Tuesday," Julian said smoothly, finally letting his eyes drift downward past Vincent’s shoulder.
And then, his gaze locked onto me.
The arrogant smirk on Julian’s face flickered for a fraction of a second, replaced by a dark, possessive flash of recognition. His eyes narrowed, taking in my dirty cleaning uniform, the bucket of bloody water at my feet, and the way Vincent Moretti was standing protectively in front of me.
"Ah," Julian smiled, though it didn't reach his dead, predatory eyes. "I see my little stray cat has found herself a new owner. Or are you just cleaning his floors now, Chloe? You always did have a talent for scrubbing things until they bled."
Hearing my real name spoken aloud in that room felt like a physical blow.
I flinched violently, trying to pull my arm back, but Vincent’s grip only tightened—not painfully, but with the unyielding strength of a vice.
"Your stray cat?" Vincent repeated, each word clipped and deliberate.
"My wife," Julian corrected smoothly, lifting his chin with theatrical pride. "Or, well, legally speaking, my runaway wife. She has a bad habit of wandering off when things get... heated at home. I’ve been looking all over Chicago for her. I’m sure you understand, Moretti—family matters. I’ll take her off your hands now. Save you the trouble of firing an incompetent maid."
Julian took two steps forward, reaching out a hand as if he expected me to automatically scurry across the marble and cower at his heels like I used to do for years.
Instantly, the two bodyguards behind Vincent pulled their jackets back, their hands resting flat against the grips of their sidearms with hair-trigger readiness.
Vincent didn't move an inch.
He didn't draw a weapon. He didn't shout. He simply turned his head slightly toward me, his slate-gray eyes softening into something unfathomably dark as he looked at my terrified face.
"Is she your wife, Chloe?" Vincent asked softly, his voice meant only for my ears.
I couldn't speak. My throat was clamped shut by sheer, paralyzing terror. I simply gave a tiny, desperate shake of my head, my eyes wide and pleading.
Don't give me to him, my expression screamed. Kill me here, but don't give me back to him.
Vincent understood.
He turned back to face Julian Vance, releasing my wrist at last, though he stepped directly over the bucket of bloody water to place himself squarely between Julian and me.
"She says no," Vincent replied quietly.
Julian’s faux-charming smile vanished. His face darkened into an ugly, blotchy red. "What did you say? Moretti, don't play games with me. She’s my property. She signed a marriage certificate—"
"Property," Vincent interrupted, his voice cutting through Julian’s rant like a razor blade. "In my house, people are not property, Vance."
Vincent took a slow, deliberate step toward Julian. The two mafia bosses stood face-to-face, a mere three feet apart, two apex predators sizing each other up in the middle of a sunlit marble foyer.
"And as for your runaway wife," Vincent continued, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper that echoed off the high ceilings, "you walked into my home, insulted my staff, and claimed ownership of a woman who is currently shaking like a leaf behind me."
Vincent turned his head slightly, speaking out of the corner of his mouth to his closest bodyguard.
"Dante."
"Boss?" the bodyguard answered instantly.
"Lock the front doors."
Clunk.
Heavy brass deadbolts engaged with a sound that echoed like a gunshot through the mansion.
Julian’s enforcers stiffened, their hands hovering over their holsters, realizing too late that they had walked willingly into a slaughterhouse.
"Moretti, you've lost your mind," Julian stammered, his arrogant veneer finally cracking to reveal the coward underneath. "You can't trap me here! My associates know I came to your estate—"
"Your associates can dig a hole for you when we're finished," Vincent said smoothly, a terrifying, humorless smile touching the corners of his mouth. "You asked who did this to her earlier, Julian."
May you like
Vincent reached out, grabbing Julian by the expensive silk lapels of his overcoat with blinding, inhuman speed, hauling the smaller man forward until their noses were inches apart.
"And now," Vincent whispered, his slate-gray eyes flashing with murderous intent, "I think you’re going to tell me."
