Chapter 3 - The Wrath of Moretti
The silence in the apartment was absolute, save for my ragged breathing and the soft, rhythmic clicking of tactical boots as Moretti enforcers secured every exit. Not a single tenant in the building would dare open their door. In New York, when the Moretti name moved, the world simply held its breath.
Vincent’s calloused thumb gently wiped a streak of dirt and blood from my cheek. His gray eyes, usually as impenetrable as polished granite, shimmered with a raw, agonizing grief that mirrored the loss of the daughter he had been forced to abandon decades ago. But that grief vanished in a fraction of a second, replaced by a dark, lethal storm.
“Dad…” I gasped, another contraction ripping through my lower back. I arched against the bathroom wall, my vision blurring at the edges. “The baby… the baby is coming now. I can feel it.”
Vincent’s head snapped up. He didn't raise his voice, but the single command he barked cut through the room like a razor.
“Marcus! Get the medical unit up here now! If my grandchild draws a single breath of compromised air in this shithole, every man on your team answers to me.”
“Right away, Boss,” a deep voice rumbled from the hallway, followed by the frantic sound of medical equipment being wheeled through the front door.
Ethan was shaking so violently his knees knocked together. He pressed his back against the living room wall, staring at the army of armed men surrounding him. He looked from Vincent to me, his brain desperately trying to connect the dots between the broke, quiet waitress he had mentally and physically abused for five years and the undisputed king of the New York underworld.
“Y-you…” Ethan stammered, his voice cracking horribly. “You’re… Vincent Moretti? You’re her father? This is a joke. This is a setup—!”
Vincent slowly rose to his feet. He towered over Ethan, who shrank back like a whipped dog. Vincent didn't shout. He didn't rush. He simply straightened the cuffs of his expensive shirt, stepped over a piece of broken drywall, and walked toward my husband.
“You broke her arm,” Vincent said softly. The quiet menace in his tone was infinitely more terrifying than a roar.
“I—I didn't know!” Ethan blurted out, panic making him incoherent. “She didn't tell me! She was just a waitress, she said her family was dead, she had nobody—!”
“She had me,” Vincent whispered.
Smack.
The backhand was so fast, so violent, that Ethan’s feet literally left the floor. He spun through the air before crashing hard against the drywall, leaving a dent in the plaster as he slid down into a heap of dust. A spray of blood and two teeth hit the floorboards with a dry clatter.
“Ethan!” Vanessa shrieked, running over to him, though she didn't dare touch him. She turned her tear-streaked, terrified face toward Vincent, falling clumsily to her knees. “Sir! Please! I had nothing to do with it! It was all him! He forced me to come here, he told me his wife was crazy, I’m just an innocent bystander—!”
Vincent stopped. He slowly turned his cold, dead-eyed gaze toward Vanessa. She was still wearing my bathrobe—the soft, pink cotton one I bought myself when I first found out I was pregnant.
“You stood in my daughter’s home,” Vincent said, his voice smooth as glass, “wearing her clothes, mocking her child, and laughing while a coward broke her bones.”
Vanessa opened her mouth to speak, but no sound came out. She choked on her own terror as two massive enforcers stepped forward, grabbing her roughly by the arms and hauling her to her feet like a sack of garbage.
“Please! No! Don’t touch me! Do you know who my father is? My father is—!”
“I don't care if your father is the President,” Vincent interrupted coldly. “Take her to the basement garage. Put her in the trunk of the Lincoln. We’ll discuss her pedigree later.”
“Dad…” I groaned, my fingernails digging into the tile as another wave of pain crashed over me. The contractions were coming back-to-back now. I was losing too much time. “The baby… please… I can’t hold on much longer.”
Vincent’s entire demeanor shifted instantly from executioner to devoted father. He dropped back to his knees beside me, his expression softening with a tenderness I had never seen before.
“I’ve got you, Lena. Look at me,” he commanded gently, taking my good hand in his warm, steady grip. “Your mother had this exact same fire in her eyes when she stood up to the Commission in ’98. You are a Moretti. You survived him, and you are going to bring my grandchild into this world. The medics are here. We’re going.”
Strong, professional hands lifted me gently onto a stretcher. The EMTs—who were clearly elite combat medics on Vincent’s private payroll—went to work instantly, checking my vitals, administering IV fluids, and preparing for an emergency delivery right there in the apartment because transport to a hospital was too risky with labor this advanced.
As they wheeled me out of the bathroom and past the living room, I caught one last glimpse of Ethan.
He was crawling on his hands and knees, spitting blood onto the rug, gasping for air while two enforcers stood over him with zip-ties ready. He looked up, his eyes meeting mine for a fraction of a second. The arrogance, the cruelty, the false sense of power he had lorded over me for five years were entirely gone. There was only the hollow, whimpering terror of a man who had finally realized he stepped into the cage of a starving tiger.
May you like
“Lena…” he croaked, lifting a bloody hand toward the stretcher. “Please… tell them… we’re married…”
I didn't answer. I turned my head away, resting my palm over my swollen belly as Vincent took my hand again, walking right beside the stretcher as we headed out into the night.
