Chapter 3 - The Threat at the Gates
For the first time in her life, Isabella Martinez had her own room.
It was a large, sunlit guest room on the second floor of the Torino mansion, featuring a massive canopy bed, a desk made of white oak, and a large window that looked out over the manicured rear gardens. Vincent had ordered his staff to stock the room with books, coloring supplies, and a small wardrobe of clothes that actually fit her.
Yet, she spent most of her time sitting on the floor in the corner of the room, her back pressed against the wall, her stuffed rabbit clutched tightly to her chest.
Vincent found her there on a rainy Tuesday afternoon.
He stood in the doorway, holding a silver tray with two cups of hot chocolate and a plate of fresh cookies his chef had prepared. "You’re sitting in the dark again."
Isabella looked up, her small face pale against the shadows. "The room is too big. It makes too much noise when the wind blows."
Vincent walked in, setting the tray on the white oak desk. He pulled up a small wooden chair and sat down, his knees nearly touching his chin. "It’s a safe house, Isabella. The walls are reinforced steel. The glass is bulletproof. The wind cannot hurt you here."
"I don't like it," she whispered. "I want my mommy."
"Your mother is getting better," Vincent said, handing her a cup of hot chocolate. "The doctors say she will be able to stand up next week. But until she is strong enough, you stay here. With me."
Isabella took a sip of the sweet, warm drink, her eyes never leaving his face. "Why are you being nice to me? My mommy says people like you only help people like us when you want to use us."
Vincent let out a short, dry laugh. "Your mother is a very smart woman. She is right. In my world, everyone wants something. But I don't want anything from you, Isabella."
"Then why?"
"Because once," Vincent said, his eyes looking past her to the rain slicking the windowpane, "I was a boy sitting in a corner just like this one, waiting for my mother to come home from a job that didn't pay enough to buy bread. Nobody brought me hot chocolate. Nobody opened the gate."
He stood up, smoothing his trousers. "I wanted to see what it looked like when the gate was opened."
Before she could answer, his phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out, his face hardening as he saw the name on the screen.
Marco.
"Talk to me," Vincent said, walking out of the room and closing the door behind him.
"Boss," Marco’s voice was urgent, tight with tension. "We have a problem. The Morettis just hit our warehouse on the East River. They didn't take the cargo, Vincent. They left a message."
"What message?"
"They hung Dino Valenti from the crane," Marco said. "He was still wearing his suit. They pinned a note to his chest. It says they’re coming to collect the four million Dino owed them. And they know about the girl."
Vincent’s grip on the phone tightened until his knuckles went white. "How did they find out?"
"Dino must have talked before he died," Marco said. "He wanted to prove to the Morettis that you were losing your edge. He told them you had a soft spot—a weakness they could use to force you to renegotiate the shipping lines."
"Where are they now?"
"We’ve got spotters on the highway," Marco said. "Two SUVs just left the Moretti compound in Brooklyn, heading north toward the mansion. They aren't trying to hide it, Vincent. They're coming for a sit-down. Or a war."
"Call the crews," Vincent said, his voice dropping into a register that was deathly quiet. "Lock down the house. Nobody gets through the gate. If a single Moretti vehicle touches my driveway, you paint the asphalt with them."
He hung up.
He walked back into Isabella’s room. She was still sitting on the floor, her cup of hot chocolate half-empty, her dark eyes looking up at him with a sudden, intuitive understanding that something had gone wrong.
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"Is the bad wind coming?" she asked.
Vincent walked over to her, knelt on the floor, and placed his hand gently on her head. "Yes, Isabella. The bad wind is coming. But I am the storm."
