Chapter 4 - The Beast Unchained
The impact threw Clare and her captor to the wet pavement.
The gray sedan was shoved four feet sideways, pinning the second henchman’s legs beneath the buckled chassis. The man screamed in agony.
Through the steam hissing from the shattered radiator of the Maserati, the driver’s side door kicked open with violent force.
Vincent stepped out.
He wasn't wearing a coat. His white tuxedo shirt was soaked, clinging to his broad frame, stained with engine oil and water. In his right hand, he held a sleek matte-black Sig Sauer. His face was unrecognizable—stripped bare of all corporate charm, all cultured arrogance, reduced to pure, primeval savagery.
The man who had held Clare pinned against the wall scrambled to his feet, fumbling for the gun beneath his jacket.
“Don't!” Clare screamed, though she didn't know whether she was warning the thug or Vincent.
Vincent didn't bother using his weapon. He closed the ten-foot distance between them in two terrifying strides. He caught the man’s extended wrist, twisted it until the bone snapped with a sickening crack, and drove his knee upward into the man’s face. The thug collapsed onto the asphalt like an empty sack of flour, unconscious before he hit the ground.
Vincent stood over the body, chest heaving, his dark eyes scanning the alley until they locked onto Clare.
She was sitting on the wet pavement, her hair plastered to her forehead, her sweater torn at the shoulder, breathing in ragged gasps.
The fury in Vincent’s eyes flickered, replaced instantly by raw, agonizing terror. He dropped his gun into his belt and fell to his knees in the puddles beside her, pulling her shoulders into his hands.
“Are you hit? Clare, look at me. Are you bleeding? Where are you hurt?”
His hands were trembling. Vincent Moretti, whose pulse didn't jump when five million dollars went missing or when a car bomb exploded two blocks from his office, was shaking like a leaf.
“I’m fine,” she gasped, trying to push his chest away. “Vincent, get off me! Matteo is—”
Gunfire erupted from the carriage house courtyard.
A bullet ricocheted off the Maserati’s frame with a high-pitched whine, throwing up sparks inches from Vincent’s head.
Without a second thought, Vincent threw his entire body over Clare, shielding her completely with his torso, pinning her against the shelter of the brick alcove. He took out his Sig Sauer and fired three suppressive rounds around the corner without looking, forcing the shooters back into the courtyard.
“Stay behind the wheel!” Vincent barked, pulling her to her feet and shoving her toward the passenger side of the idling Maserati.
“I am not leaving with you!” Clare shouted through the rain, adrenaline warring with her fury.
“You’re leaving with me or you’re leaving in a body bag in Matteo Bertolli’s trunk!” Vincent roared back, his eyes wild. “Get in the goddamn car, Clare!”
A round shattered the rear windshield of the Maserati, raining safety glass over the interior.
Clare dove into the passenger seat. Vincent rounded the hood, dropped into the driver's seat, threw the transmission into reverse, and slammed the throttle. The tires screamed, biting into the wet asphalt as the car rocketed backward down the alley, scraping sparks against the concrete walls before spinning 180 degrees into the open street of Atlantic Avenue.
Behind them, Matteo Bertolli emerged from the shadows of the alley, raising an automatic rifle, but the Maserati was already two hundred yards away, vanishing into the dawn fog.
Inside the cabin, the only sound was the heavy breathing of two people whose worlds had just collided at terminal velocity.
Clare pulled her knees to her chest, shivering violently from the cold and the adrenaline dump. She looked at Vincent’s hands on the steering wheel.
His knuckles were split and bloody. But that wasn't what caught her eye.
On the dashboard, sitting in the small leather tray between them, was her wedding ring. He had brought it with him.
“Where are you taking me?” she asked, her voice shaking despite her best efforts to sound composed.
“Somewhere safe,” Vincent said, his eyes fixed on the rear-view mirror, watching for pursuit.
“Take me to a precinct.”
Vincent turned his head, his profile hard as granite. “A precinct? You think a two-bit detective on Matteo’s payroll won't hand you over before lunchtime? Have you completely forgotten what world we live in?”
“No,” Clare said, turning to face him, the tears she had held back for six hours finally spilling over her cold cheeks. “I didn't forget. *You* did. You brought this world into my life, Vincent. You brought men with crowbars and rifles to my door! And seven hours ago, you sat in a ballroom laughing about how replaceable I was!”
Vincent slammed his hand against the steering wheel with enough force to trigger the horn.
“I didn't mean it!” he shouted, the agony in his voice so visceral it filled the entire car. “I would burn this entire city to the ground before I let another man touch a hair on your head! I would tear my own throat out before I let anyone replace you!”
“Then why did you say it?” Clare yelled back, her voice breaking. “Why did you say it to them?”
Vincent didn't answer. He couldn't.
Because the truth was uglier than an affair: he had said it because he had grown proud, untouchable, and rotten with power. And looking at his wife covered in mud, rain, and blood in the passenger seat of his shattered car, Vincent realized that his empire hadn't made him a king.
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It had made him a monster who had nearly destroyed the only pure thing he had ever possessed.
***
