Chapter 2 - The Door on the Third Floor
The hallway of the decaying brick apartment building on 142nd Street smelled of damp plaster, cheap tobacco, and bleach.
Dante walked up the narrow stairs without making a sound, flanked by Dominic and two broad-shouldered men in dark coats. Every step Dante took carried the weight of a man who had spent forty-one years mastering the art of absolute authority.
When they reached Apartment 3B, the door was already cracked open, the frame splintered near the latch.
Inside, the sound of glass breaking and a man cursing echoed into the corridor.
“Where’s the rest of your cash, you worthless bitch?!” Marcus snarled from inside. “You think hiding in the bathroom saves you?!”
Dante pushed the door open with the tip of his leather boot.
The apartment was small, cramped, and littered with empty beer cans. In the center of the living room, Marcus—a broad, bloated man in a stained tank top—was holding Emma by the collar of her shirt, dragging her across the floor. Emma’s face was pale, tears carving clean lines through the dust on her cheeks, her left arm hanging at an unnatural, agonizing angle against her ribs.
Marcus turned around, his eyes wild with alcohol and rage. “Who the hell are you?! Get the out of my house!”
Dante stepped over a broken lamp on the floor, his hands folded calmly inside his coat pockets. His dark eyes swept over Emma’s broken arm, the bruise forming on her cheek, and the sheer terror in her eyes.
“You have five seconds to take your hands off her,” Dante said softly.
Marcus laughed, pulling a rusty folding knife from his back pocket. “You think you scare me, old man? I don't care who you brought with you—”
Before Marcus could finish his sentence, Dominic moved like a shadow.
In a single, fluid motion, Dominic disarmed the knife, twisted Marcus’s wrist until a sharp bone snap echoed through the room, and slammed his heavy frame face-first onto the wooden floorboards.
Marcus screamed in agony, his face pinned under Dominic’s heavy boot.
Dante didn't even look at the man groaning on the floor. He dropped to one knee beside Emma, his large, warm hand gently lifting her chin so she could look at him.
“Emma,” Dante murmured, his voice softening into a gentle warmth she had never heard before. “I’m here. It’s over.”
Emma looked into his dark, steady eyes, the terror that had consumed her for hours suddenly vanishing, replaced by a flood of pure relief.
“Dante...” she wept, collapsing against his broad chest.
Dante wrapped his heavy wool coat around her small, shivering frame, lifting her up into his arms with absolute care, making sure not to touch her broken arm.
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“Dominic,” Dante said coldly, stepping toward the door with Emma held close. “Clean this mess up. Make sure Marcus understands that if he ever breathes the same air as Miss Vale again, he disappears forever.”
“Consider it done, Boss,” Dominic replied, his grip tightening on Marcus’s neck.
