Chapter 5 - Escape Velocity
The heavy oak doors of the Moretti estate slammed shut behind them, cutting off the suffocating swell of classical music and whispering elites.
The cool night air hit Emma like a physical blow. She stood at the top of the stone steps, trembling—not from the chill, but from the sheer adrenaline coursing through her veins.
"You didn't have to do that," Emma breathed, pulling her hand gently from his grip, though she didn't walk away. She looked up at him, the porch light catching the sharp angles of his jaw. "You just declared war on half your inner circle."
Vincent shoved his hands into his pockets, exhaling a long, steady breath into the damp night air. A rare, genuine smirk touched the corner of his mouth.
"Let them declare war," Vincent said darkly. "They’ve been getting too comfortable anyway. A little chaos is good for the family."
"You're insane," Emma said, though a breathless laugh escaped her lips. "Do you know what they're saying about me in there right now? 'The hairdresser from Logan Square just brought the Moretti empire to a screeching halt.'"
"Let them talk," Vincent said, stepping closer. The space between them evaporated. Logan Square, the salon, the smoky parlors of the mafia—everything else ceased to exist. "They talk because they have nothing real. Everything in that room is transactional. You... you’re the only real thing I’ve encountered in years."
Emma’s heart skipped a beat. She looked into his dark eyes and saw no shadows there—only an unspoken vulnerability that he hid from the rest of the world.
"Get in the car, Emma," he murmured, his voice dropping to a seductive whisper. "Let's go somewhere where nobody knows our names."
They didn't go back to her apartment, and they didn't go to one of Vincent’s high-security compounds. Instead, Vincent instructed the driver to take them down toward the Chicago River, stopping at a quiet, late-night diner with cracked vinyl booths and the smell of fresh black coffee.
Sitting across from each other in the corner booth, stripped of the tuxedos, gowns, and crystal chandeliers, they felt like two entirely different people.
Emma bit into a greasy french fry, laughing as Vincent cautiously inspected a greasy paper menu as if it were a coded document from a rival syndicate.
"You've never been to a diner, have you?" Emma teased, dipping a fry into ketchup.
"I have standards," Vincent deadpanned, though a smile broke through.
"Right. Standards. Meanwhile, you just risked a family civil war over a woman who smells like hairspray."
Vincent set the menu down, leaning across the small table, resting his chin in his hand. His dark eyes softened completely. "You think I didn't calculate the risk? Emma, from the moment you told me I looked like I was about to fire the entire planet, I knew I was in trouble. The gala was just an excuse to see if you'd break. And you didn't. You stood tall against wolves."
"I was terrified," she whispered honestly.
"So was I," he replied quietly.
The diner hummed with quiet life around them, but in that small booth, the world narrowed down to the space between their hands.
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Little did they know, back at the Moretti estate, the fallout had already begun. And Sabrina Hale was not the type of woman to accept defeat lying down.
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