Chapter 8 - The Price of Loyalty
The Maybach didn't stop for the red traffic lights on Boylston Street; it blew through them at ninety miles an hour, its engine roaring like a wounded predator. In the backseat, Vincent ripped the charging handle of an HK416 assault rifle back with a brutal, metallic clack, checking the chamber before snapping it forward. Leo gripped the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles turned translucent.
"Boss, we've got a tail," Leo yelled over the engine roar, glancing at the rearview mirror. "Two black SUVs trailing us from the financial district."
"Shake them or put them in a wall," Vincent replied coldly, never taking his dark eyes off the glowing GPS tracking dot pulsing on his tablet—the signal originating from Mave’s apartment.
Leo slammed the gear shift down, cutting the wheel hard to the left and sending the heavy luxury vehicle sliding across four lanes of wet asphalt, narrowly missing an oncoming freight truck before rocketing down a narrow service alleyway. The pursuing SUVs slammed on their brakes, unable to match the tight maneuver, crashing into a row of metal trash cans.
Ten seconds later, the Maybach slid to a violent halt in front of Mave’s apartment building.
Vincent burst out of the door before the car had even fully stopped, his assault rifle raised. He didn't use the front lobby; he vaulted the six-foot wrought-iron security fence of the courtyard, scaling the brick fire escape with feral speed, taking the steps three at a time until he reached the third-floor balcony.
Inside Mave’s apartment, the glass sliding door was shattered.
Vincent kicked the remaining shards away, stepping into the ruined living room. Blood stained the hardwood floor near the hallway.
"Mave!" he shouted, his voice echoing off the walls, stripped of every ounce of corporate composure.
A soft, breathless sound came from the master bedroom. Vincent swept through the doorway, his rifle barrel leading the way.
Mave was standing near the bathroom vanity, her hand wrapped in a makeshift gauze bandage, her face pale but her eyes fierce. On the floor beside her lay one of Maroni’s hitmen, unconscious and bleeding heavily from a gunshot wound to the shoulder. The second intruder had fled through the balcony when the sirens of Vincent’s arrival had echoed down the street.
Vincent dropped the rifle to the floor, crossing the room in a single bound. He grabbed her by the shoulders, pulling her so hard against his chest that she could feel the frantic, heavy pounding of his heart.
"You're bleeding," Vincent whispered, his fingers trembling as he touched her bandaged hand.
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"It's just a graze," Mave breathed, burying her face against his shoulder, letting the raw, overwhelming wave of relief wash over her. "They wanted the ledgers. They wanted to know about the new shipping codes."
Vincent pulled back, his dark eyes burning with an intense, apocalyptic fire. He cupped her face, his thumb gently brushing a smudge of soot from her cheek. "They didn't want the ledgers, Mave. They wanted you. And for that, the Maroni syndicate is going to burn to the ground."
