Chapter 5 - The Broken Trap
I didn't get to leave for Boston at nine o'clock the next morning.
At 7:30 AM, while I was packing my small canvas bag with the new clothes Vincent had provided, the apartment intercom chimed sharply.
I froze, looking toward the door.
A moment later, Sal rushed into the apartment without knocking. His face, usually an unreadable wall of stone, was pale and tense.
“Amelia,” Sal barked sharply. “Stay in the bedroom. Do not come out.”
“Sal, what’s happening?” I panicked, stepping back.
“Tommy found out,” Sal spat out, pulling a small black handgun from his armpit holster and checking the magazine with a sharp clack. “The idiot tracked one of my drivers who bought your medicine at the local pharmacy on 8th Street. He’s downstairs in the alley with three of his friends from the precinct block.”
My blood turned to pure ice. “He brought people with him?”
“He brought local scum,” Sal corrected coldly. “He thinks he’s coming to rescue you from a mob kidnapped setup so he can demand money from Mr. Rossi. Stay in the room!”
Sal closed the bedroom door, and the lock turned from the outside.
I stood alone in the quiet bedroom, my heart hammering like a trapped bird inside my chest.
Through the heavy glass window, I heard the distant, muffled sound of voices yelling in the alley below. I rushed to the window, pulling the sheer curtain aside half an inch to look down.
Snow was falling thick and heavy over the cobblestone lane.
Standing near the black Cadillac was Tommy. He was wearing his heavy brown work coat, his left hand wrapped in tight white bandages—courtesy of Vincent’s men from Thursday night. Beside him stood three rough-looking men holding iron crowbars and a sawed-off baseball bat.
Tommy was screaming up at the building, his face red and contorted with rage.
“Rossi!” Tommy roared, his voice echoing off the brick walls. “I know she’s up there, you old bastard! Send her down or we’re tearing this place apart!”
From the shadow of the garage entrance, Vincent Rossi stepped out into the snow.
He wore no coat, only his dark navy wool suit, his hands tucked casually into his trouser pockets. He was completely alone. He didn't carry a weapon. He didn't look angry. He walked toward the four men with the calm, effortless grace of a king walking through a park.
Sal stepped out behind him, his handgun held low at his side, aimed directly at Tommy’s chest.
“You’re shouting in my alley, Tommy,” Vincent said, his low voice carrying clearly through the crisp winter air. “It’s seven in the morning. My neighbors are sleeping.”
“I don't give a damn about your neighbors!” Tommy spat, taking a step forward, brandishing his baseball bat. “Amelia is my girlfriend! She belongs to me! She stole three hundred dollars from my apartment and you’re hiding her!”
Vincent stopped five feet away from Tommy. He looked at the sawed-off bat, then at Tommy’s bandaged fingers, and finally into Tommy’s bloodshot eyes.
“She doesn't belong to you,” Vincent said softly. “She never did. You are a small, pathetic parasite who beats women because no real man in this city respects you.”
Tommy screamed in fury, raising the bat high above his shoulder, stepping forward to strike.
What happened next was so fast I barely saw it.
Vincent didn't back away. He stepped into Tommy’s guard, his hand darting out like a strike from a viper. His left palm slammed hard into Tommy’s throat, cutting off his air, while his right hand grabbed Tommy’s wrist, twisting it violently against the joint.
The baseball bat clattered onto the snowy cobblestones.
Tommy let out a horrific, strangulated shriek as Vincent drove his knee viciously into Tommy’s stomach, dropping the younger man to his knees in the slush.
The three men with Tommy panicked, raising their crowbars, but Sal raised his handgun, cocking the hammer back with a loud, terrifying CLICK.
“Step back,” Sal ordered flatly. “Or you don't leave this alley alive.”
The three men instantly dropped their iron bars, took three steps back, and fled down the alley toward the main street like terrified rats.
Tommy lay on his knees in the dark slush, coughing violently, clutching his stomach, blood dripping from his nose into the pristine white snow.
Vincent stood over him, smoothing the lapels of his suit jacket with absolute, chilling composure.
“Listen to me very carefully, Tommy,” Vincent said, leaning down so his face was inches from Tommy’s ear. “If I ever see your face south of 59th Street again... if I ever hear your name whispered near Amelia’s family... I will not send my men to talk to you.”
Vincent grabbed Tommy by his coat collar, lifting his head up so Tommy was forced to look into his dark, merciless eyes.
“I will cut your throat myself and throw you to the crabs in the bay. Do you understand me?”
Tommy nodded frantically, gasping for air, tears streaming down his bruised cheeks. “Yes... yes, Mr. Rossi... please...”
“Get out of my sight.”
Vincent released him, and Tommy scrambled backward like a dog, slipping and sliding in the bloody slush, before sprinting out of the alley as fast as his broken body could carry him.
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I stood at the third-floor window, pressed against the glass, my chest heaving, watching the snow fall over the empty alleyway.
Vincent looked up slowly, his dark gaze finding my window through the falling white flakes. He didn't smile. He didn't wave. He simply adjusted his cuffs and turned to walk back inside the building.
