Chapter 2 - The Fortress Without a Queen
By 3:00 AM, the penthouse was crawling with men in tailored charcoal suits who moved like specters and spoke in hushed, nervous tones.
Anthony Russo, Vincent’s right-hand man for over a decade, stood near the grand fireplace with a secure satellite phone pressed to his ear. Two senior bodyguards remained stationed near the service entrance, looking everywhere except at their boss.
Vincent hadn't changed out of his tuxedo shirt. He stood by the panoramic window, a crystal tumbler filled with untouched bourbon resting in his hand. The city below was turning gray under the relentless rain, headlights carving wet streaks through the early morning fog.
“Anthony,” Vincent said without turning around.
Anthony hung up the call immediately. “Boss.”
“Where is she?”
Anthony hesitated. In their line of work, hesitation was usually fatal, but answering this question felt equally dangerous. “She didn't take any of the family vehicles. Daniel offered to drive her anywhere she wanted, but she sent him back after dropping her at the lobby. She hailed a yellow cab on Fifth Avenue.”
Vincent’s jaw muscles bunched. “A cab. My wife got into a stranger’s car at midnight in the middle of Manhattan. Did you pull the transit feeds?”
“The street cameras at 64th and Fifth are owned by the city. We have three techs working on accessing the municipal feed, but it takes time without triggering Homeland Security flags.”
Vincent turned around, his eyes blazing with a feral, cold intensity. He set the tumbler down on the granite counter with enough force to send a spiderweb crack through the crystal base.
“I don’t give a damn about Homeland Security flags, Anthony. Find the cab. Find the driver. Find the medallion number. If I don't know what address she stepped onto within two hours, I will start burning the transit authority’s server farms to the ground.”
“Vincent, calm down,” Anthony said, taking a calculated risk by stepping into the boss's personal space. “Clare is smart. She isn't wandering into an alley in the South Bronx. She’s angry. She wants space. If you mobilize three dozen foot soldiers and shut down midtown traffic, every federal wiretap from Wall Street to Queens is going to light up like Christmas. And worse—”
“Worse than what?” Vincent barked, closing the distance between them until he was an inch from Anthony’s face. “What could be worse than my wife being alone in this city while five rival families are looking for any crack in our armor?”
“Worse because the Bertolli family is already whispering,” Anthony said bluntly.
The name hung in the air like poison.
Matteo Bertolli was the youngest son of the old Brooklyn syndicate that Vincent’s father had dismantled twelve years ago. For three years, Matteo had been operating out of New Jersey, clawing his way back into real estate and port logistics, watching Vincent like a starved wolf watching a lion.
“What does Matteo know?” Vincent whispered, his tone dropping from fury to something far more dangerous.
“Someone at the charity gala noticed Clare leaving early,” Anthony admitted, keeping his voice level. “Someone noticed you ditching the speech. By midnight, rumors were circulating in the private clubs that the Moretti marriage had cracked wide open. If Matteo thinks Clare is unprotected, he won't see a woman who needs space, Vincent. He’ll see leverage.”
Vincent’s eyes narrowed into slits. The arrogance that had fueled him at the bar hours earlier had evaporated completely, replaced by the lethal, calculating clarity that had made him the most feared man in New York by age thirty-two.
“Get Frank and Marco,” Vincent ordered, his voice terrifyingly quiet. “Put round-the-clock details on Clare’s sister in Connecticut, her old university mentor, and every property held under her mother’s maiden name. Do not approach them. Do not let them know they’re being watched. If anyone so much as breathes near their driveways, take them off the board.”
“And Clare?”
Vincent reached out and picked up the platinum wedding ring from the counter. He held it in his palm, closing his fingers around it until the diamond bit painfully into his flesh.
“Clare doesn't go to hotels. She doesn't like crowds when she's hurting. She wouldn't go to her sister because she’d never want to drag Amanda into my world.” Vincent looked past Anthony toward the gray silhouette of the Brooklyn Bridge in the distance. “She went back to the only place where she felt she belonged to herself.”
Anthony frowned. “Brooklyn?”
“The old carriage house on St. Marks,” Vincent murmured, memory cutting through his anger like a scalpel. “The studio she rented before she married me. She kept the lease under a holding company she formed in college. She thinks I forgot about it.”
“Do you want me to send a recovery team?”
Vincent looked at Anthony as if he had lost his mind. “Recovery team? She isn't a stolen shipment of diamonds, Anthony. She’s my wife. If another man puts a hand on her elbow, I’ll take his arm off. I go alone.”
“Vincent, that’s suicide,” Anthony protested, his face pale. “That district borders Bertolli’s old territory. If you go without security, without backup—”
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“If I bring an army to her door, she will never look at me again,” Vincent said. He turned toward the dressing room to change out of his ruined tuxedo. “Have the unmarked sedan brought to the garage. Leave the phone off. And if Matteo Bertolli makes a single move across the river tonight... kill everyone he has ever had dinner with.”
***
