Chapter 2 - The Bullet and the Blood
The ballroom noise seemed to recede into a dull, underwater hum as the stranger stopped just six feet away from Vincent. The air between them grew thick, charged with the violent static of an impending storm. The scarred man’s smile didn't reach his eyes; his gaze darted past Vincent’s shoulder, trying desperately to lock back onto Mave.
“Vincent Costa,” the stranger rasped, his voice rough like gravel grinding under a heavy boot. “I was wondering if you’d remember me. Or do you lose track of everyone whose lives you ruin in the New Jersey ports?”
Vincent didn't blink. His left hand rested casually, yet with terrifying readiness, inside his jacket pocket. “I remember trash, and I usually have it thrown out. You must have slipped past the incinerator.”
A harsh chuckle rattled in the stranger’s chest. “You think you own this city, Costa. You think your offshore accounts and your little logistics spreadsheets keep you safe. But you missed a ledger. You missed a leak right inside your own house.”
Mave’s breath caught sharply in her throat. The Belize account. The thirty thousand dollars bleeding into the New Jersey trucking company. This man knew about it. He was connected to the internal breach she had discovered just hours before the gala.
“You talk too much for a dead man,” Vincent said quietly.
In a blur of motion that defied human reaction, the scarred man’s hand vanished inside his oversized tuxedo jacket, ripping a suppressed automatic pistol free from its holster.
Panic erupted around them. A nearby socialite shrieked, dropping her champagne glass, which shattered against the marble floor with a sharp explosion of sound. Guests scattered in blind terror, screaming and diving behind tables as the illusion of elite safety vanished in a single second.
The stranger didn't aim at Vincent. He swung the barrel wide, snapping it directly toward Mave, intending to strike Vincent where it hurt most—at his weakest, most exposed asset.
Vincent moved faster.
Before the scarred man could squeeze the trigger, Vincent launched himself forward, slamming his left shoulder into the gunman’s chest while his right hand whipped his Sig Sauer from his jacket. A muffled thump echoed through the ballroom as the stranger’s gun discharged wildly into the ceiling plaster, raining white dust over the orchids.
Vincent jammed the barrel of his pistol squarely under the man’s chin.
“End of the line,” Vincent whispered, his face carved from cold granite.
Before Vincent could pull the trigger, a second flash of motion tore across the chaotic room. Another operative—part of the stranger’s syndicate—emerged from the panic-stricken crowd near the dessert table, leveling a firearm directly at Vincent’s exposed flank.
Mave didn't think. Years of hiding behind quiet desks and keeping her head down dissolved under the raw surge of adrenaline. She grabbed the heavy, full champagne bottle from the marble pillar beside her and hurled it with every ounce of strength she possessed.
The heavy crystal bottle struck the second gunman squarely in the temple with a sickening crunch. He staggered sideways, his weapon firing harmlessly into the floorboards before he collapsed unconscious into a display of wedding cake and silver platters.
At the same time, Vincent capitalized on the distraction, driving the butt of his pistol into the temple of the scarred man beneath him. The gunman’s eyes rolled back, and he crumpled heavily onto the Persian rug, motionless.
Silence descended upon the ruined ballroom, broken only by the distant wailing of police sirens echoing through the rain-slicked downtown streets outside.
Vincent stood slowly, his breathing heavy, a dark smear of blood—not his own—staining the cuff of his pristine white dress shirt. He turned around, his dark eyes searching the chaos until they found Mave standing against the pillar, her hands trembling violently for the first time all night.
Vincent crossed the space between them in two long strides, his hands coming up to grip her shoulders, checking her over for injuries with frantic, unspoken desperation.
“Are you hit?” he demanded, his voice stripped of all cool authority.
May you like
“No,” Mave whispered, her voice shaking. “I’m... I’m not hit.”
Vincent exhaled a ragged breath, pulling her stiff body firmly against his chest, shielding her from the flashing red and blue lights beginning to strobe through the tall windows. “We’re leaving. Now.”
