Chapter 4 - The Shadow of the Beast
The third-floor apartment was pristine, silent, and entirely impersonal.
It consisted of a spacious living room with polished oak floors, a leather sofa, a fully stocked kitchen, and a master bedroom with a large bed covered in crisp white linen. There were no photographs on the walls, no personal items, no traces of former occupants. It felt less like a home and more like a fortress.
For two days, I did not step foot outside the heavy front door.
Sal arrived twice a day, dropping off wooden boxes of hot food from high-end Italian restaurants downtown, fresh ice packs for my jaw, and three bags of brand-new clothing in my exact size—simple jeans, soft wool sweaters, and a warm winter coat. He never spoke more than three words: “Eat. Rest. Stay.”
By Friday morning, the swelling in my lip had gone down significantly, leaving behind a faint, jagged scar. The dark purple bruise across my jaw had faded into a dull, yellowish shadow.
For forty-eight hours, I slept twelve hours a night, ate warm food, and watched the snow fall softly outside the wide glass windows overlooking the cobblestone street below.
It was the first time in my adult life I hadn't been afraid of a door opening.
At seven o'clock on Friday evening, the door lock clicked.
I stood up from the sofa instantly, my body tensing by habit.
Vincent Rossi walked into the apartment, carrying a leather briefcase. He wore a heavy black overcoat dusted with snow. He removed his gloves, set his briefcase on the kitchen counter, and glanced across the room at me.
“You look better,” he noted, his voice calm and smooth.
“Thank you,” I said, standing near the kitchen counter. “For the clothes... and the food. I don't know how to repay you, Mr. Rossi.”
“You don't need to repay me,” he said, pouring himself a glass of water from the tap. “How is your face?”
“It doesn't hurt anymore.”
Vincent pulled a chair out from the small dining table and sat down, gesturing for me to sit across from him.
“Tommy has been looking for you,” Vincent said casually, taking a sip of water.
My heart instantly skipped a beat. “Has he... has he come to the diner?”
“He went to the diner on Wednesday night,” Vincent replied. “He threw a glass bottle at Frank’s kitchen door when Frank refused to tell him where you were. On Thursday, he went to your sister’s apartment in Brooklyn.”
I gasped, my hands grasping the edge of the table. “Is Sarah okay? Did he touch her?”
“Your sister is fine,” Vincent said, his dark eyes fixing on mine. “My men were watching her building. When Tommy showed up drunk at her door, two of my associates took him into an alleyway and explained to him that he was bothering people.”
“What did they do to him?” I whispered, terror rising in my throat.
“Nothing permanent,” Vincent said flatly. “They broke two of his fingers and took his wallet. They told him that if he ever went near your sister again, he would be found at the bottom of the East River.”
I stared at him, caught between a terrifying relief and a profound horror at how easily he commanded violence.
“He knows about you now,” I whispered.
“He knows that someone powerful is holding you,” Vincent corrected smoothly. “He doesn't know who. Men like Tommy are cowards, Amelia. They only exert power over people who cannot fight back. The moment a larger predator enters the room, they shrink into nothing.”
He reached into his leather briefcase and pulled out a thick manila envelope, sliding it across the table toward me.
“What is this?” I asked.
“A new identity,” Vincent stated. “A social security card, a New York driver's license under the name Clara Vance, three thousand dollars in cash, and a bus ticket to Boston leaving tomorrow morning at nine.”
I looked down at the envelope, my hands trembling.
“Boston?” I echoed softly.
“I have a friend who owns a quiet bakery in the South End,” Vincent explained. “She needs a reliable counter manager. She will give you a small apartment above the shop, pay you cash, and ask no questions. Tommy will never find you there.”
It was everything I had prayed for during three years of beatings and fear. It was freedom, safety, and a clean slate.
Yet as I looked across the table at the silver-haired man sitting opposite me, a strange, ache filled my chest.
“Why are you giving me this?” I asked quietly. “You could have just left me in that alley.”
May you like
Vincent looked at me for a long, quiet moment, his expression unreadable.
“Because you remind me of what my daughter could have had,” he said softly. “If she had been brave enough to run.”
