Chapter 1 - The Sound of Splintering Wood
The silence inside Carmelo’s back room became lethal.
Dante didn’t shout. He didn't curse. He simply held the phone tightly to his ear while the jazz trio continued to play softly in the dining room outside.
Six months ago, he had watched that terrified waitress, Emma Vale, tremble over a spilled glass of wine. He had seen the faint yellow-green bruises hidden beneath the cuffs of her uniform shirt—marks that didn't come from bumping into tables. Before leaving that night, he had slid his personal card into her apron pocket and whispered a promise: “If the world ever gets too loud, call this number.”
She had never called. Until tonight.
“Emma,” Dante said, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly tone that commanded instant obedience. “Where are you?”
Through the speaker, the sound of wood splintering echoed again, followed by a harsh, drunken laugh.
“You think a cheap lock is gonna stop me, Emma?!” a male voice roared in the background. “Open this damn door before I break your other arm!”
Dante’s eyes narrowed into slits of pure obsidian. Across the table, Celeste Ward instantly reached into her briefcase, pulling out a tablet to trace the incoming call signal.
“He’s... he’s in the apartment, Dante,” Emma whispered, her voice choking on tears and sheer agony. “My left arm... I think Marcus broke it. He took my keys... I’m locked in the bathroom...”
“Listen to my voice, Emma,” Dante commanded, stepping out of the back room into the main corridor. Dominic, his chief of security, instantly fell into step beside him without needing a word. “How many minutes away are you from the entrance?”
“Third floor... 142nd Street, Harlem,” she sobbed.
“Dominic,” Dante barked softly. “Get the Escalade. Drive fast.”
“Dante, please hurry—” Emma gasped before a loud, violent CRACK shattered the phone line. The bathroom door had given way.
“Who the hell are you talking to?!” Marcus’s voice boomed through the speaker, followed by the sickening sound of a strike, a muffled scream from Emma, and the sudden clatter of the phone hitting the floor.
“Marcus!” Dante’s voice cut through the phone like a steel blade before the line went dead.
Dante stood on the rain-soaked sidewalk outside Carmelo’s, the cold March wind whipping his heavy wool coat around his knees. He slid the phone into his pocket, his jaw set like iron.
“How long to Harlem, Dominic?” Dante asked, stepping into the back seat of the heavy armored SUV.
May you like
“At this hour, with rain? Twenty minutes, Boss,” Dominic replied, slamming his foot onto the accelerator, sending the vehicle roaring through the neon-lit streets of Manhattan.
“You have ten,” Dante said coldly. “And tell the boys to bring the heavy gear. Marcus isn't leaving that apartment on his feet.”
