Chapter 5 - The Tenement at Fourth and Elm
The two men stepped out from the rear hallway into the dimly lit tailoring shop, their hands instinctively dropping toward the holsters tucked inside their leather jackets.
They were large men—former amateur boxers turned street enforcers for Lowell, wearing soaked leather jackets and cheap gold chains that gleamed under the flickering fluorescent lights. The lead enforcer, a scarred brute with a broken nose named Miller, squinted through the gloom, his hand gripping the butt of a snub-nosed revolver.
Then his eyes adjusted. He saw Vincent standing by the clothing racks, flanked by Sal and two other armed men whose tactical stances made it immediately clear they weren't local street thugs.
Miller’s hand froze on his holster. Color drained from his face as recognition hit him like a physical blow.
“Torino...” Miller choked out, his voice hitching in his throat. “What the hell... this is Lowell’s territory—!”
“It was,” Vincent interrupted smoothly, taking two slow steps forward.
Miller didn't wait to hear anything else. Panic overriding reason, he yanked his revolver clear of his holster, desperate to bring the barrel up before Sal or the others could react.
He never made it.
Before Miller’s finger could even touch the trigger, Sal’s suppressed automatic coughed twice with a dull, wet chuff-chuff.
Two 9mm rounds took Miller square in the right shoulder and knee, spinning him around with crushing force. He hit the linoleum floor with a heavy, sickening thud, dropping his gun as he screamed, clutching his shattered kneecap while blood pooled rapidly across the checkered tiles.
The second enforcer dropped his hands instantly, throwing them over his head and taking three frantic steps backward until his back slammed hard against a wooden rack of spools.
“Don't shoot! Don't shoot!” the man shrieked, his eyes wide with white-hot terror as Sal’s weapon leveled directly between his eyes. “I’m just driving the van! I didn't touch her! I swear to God I didn't touch her!”
Vincent walked past the screaming Miller without glancing down, his polished shoes stepping carefully over the expanding pool of blood. He stopped two feet away from the trembling driver, looking down at him with an expression of such cold, absolute detachment that the man looked ready to faint.
“Where is she?” Vincent asked.
“Upstairs!” the driver blubbered, tears mixing with the rain streaming down his face. “Second floor! Back apartment! Please, Mr. Torino, we were just following orders—Lowell said clear the block, make an example—!”
Vincent didn't wait for him to finish. He turned his back on the cowering thug, gesturing once to Sal.
“Tie them up, gag them, and put them in the trunk of their own car,” Vincent commanded quietly as he headed toward the narrow stairwell leading to the residential floor above. “And Sal?”
“Boss?”
“If either of them makes a sound before I come back down, make sure they don't make another one for the rest of their lives.”
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“Understood,” Sal said, a grim smile touching his lips as he swung the butt of his pistol toward the driver's jaw.
Vincent grabbed the wooden handrail of the staircase and began climbing to the second floor, his mind entirely focused on the small, terrified face of little Lily waiting in the car, and the woman bleeding out in the room above.
