Chapter 2 - The Blood in the Snow
Ten minutes later, Emma was sitting on a plush leather seat inside my armored SUV, clutching a warm turkey sandwich with both hands. The grease from the paper wrapper stained her chin, but she ate with a desperate, quiet intensity that made my chest tighten. Children shouldn't know what starvation feels like. They shouldn't know what fear smells like.
"Boss," Leo said from the front passenger seat. His laptop was balanced on his knees, screen glowing blue in the dim interior of the vehicle. "I got the street cams. The Charger was trailing a gray Honda Civic from Midtown down to Houston Street. The Civic blew a tire near the docks on Pier 42."
"And the driver?" I asked.
"Camera angles are bad near the warehouses," Leo grunted. "But I caught three men dragging a woman out of the vehicle at 14:12. That's fifteen minutes before Emma walked into the bakery."
I glanced at the little girl. She had finished her sandwich and was staring out the tinted window, her tiny fingers tracing the snowflakes melting against the glass.
"Who operates on Pier 42?" I asked, though I already knew the answer.
Leo hesitated. "That's Valenti turf, Boss. Don Salvatore's crew."
Salvatore Valenti. The old hound had been testing my borders for six months, pushing narcotics into my neighborhoods and trying to bribe my union reps. He was arrogant, ruthless, and increasingly sloppy. But kidnapping a mother off the street in broad daylight—and driving her daughter straight into my sanctuary—was beyond sloppy. It was an declaration of war.
"Why would Valenti want Elena Vance?" I mused aloud.
"I ran her name," Leo said, tapping a key. "Elena Vance. Former chief accountant for Apex Logistics. Apex is a front company for Valenti's offshore money laundering operations. She resigned two weeks ago, filed a whistleblower complaint with the SEC, and went off the grid."
The puzzle pieces fell into place with a sickening click. Elena Vance wasn't just a mother running for her life; she was the holder of Valenti's financial throat. She knew where the bodies were buried, which politicians were bought, and where every dirty dollar flowed. Valenti couldn't afford to let her talk. And he certainly couldn't afford to let her daughter roam free to be used as leverage against him.
"Marco," I said softly.
"Boss?"
"Take Emma to the estate. Put her under Maria's care. Tell the house guards that if anyone comes within a mile of the perimeter without my personal clearance, put them in the ground."
"Understood."
I looked at Emma. I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out a small silver pocket watch—a heirloom given to me by my father. I pressed it into her hand.
"Keep this for me," I told her. "It's very important. I need you to hold onto it until I bring your mother back."
She clutched the heavy silver watch against her tiny chest and nodded, her voice barely a whisper. "You promise?"
May you like
"I don't break promises, little one," I said. "It's bad for business."
I stepped out of the vehicle into the biting winter air, signaling my tactical team to fall in behind me. Pier 42 was ten minutes away. Salvatore Valenti had crossed into my territory, brought his filth to my doorstep, and frightened a child under my protection. By nightfall, he would learn why the city feared the name Moretti.
