Chapter 6 - The Unspoken Debt
An hour later, the bedroom door unlocked.
Vincent walked into the apartment, carrying my manila envelope and a fresh cup of hot coffee. His clothes were clean, his hair perfectly combed, showing no physical trace of the violence that had taken place in the alley thirty minutes earlier.
He set the coffee on the kitchen counter and looked at me.
“The bus leaves at eleven now,” Vincent said calmly. “Sal cleared the roads. The snow isn't heavy enough to delay the interstate line.”
I stood near the dining table, holding my canvas duffel bag, staring at him.
“You fought him yourself,” I whispered.
Vincent took a slow sip of his coffee. “I don't let trash shout in my alley.”
“You could have let Sal shoot him,” I said, taking two steps toward him. “Why did you do it yourself?”
Vincent set his cup down, his expression hardening into a dark, contemplative mask.
“Because three years ago, when my daughter’s husband came to my house after he hit her the first time,” Vincent murmured, his voice dropping into a register of profound, ancient pain, “I didn't hit him. I gave him a lecture. I gave him money to go to counseling. I acted like a civilized businessman.”
He looked up at me, his dark eyes burning with an intense, haunting light.
“And six months later, my daughter was dead in an emergency room,” he said softly. “I should have broken his hands the first day he touched her. I didn't. I carried that regret every day of my life until I met you in that diner.”
I looked at this terrifying, powerful man who held the city in his grip, and for the first time, I didn't see a mob boss. I saw a grieving father who had been trapped in his own nightmare for three long years.
I walked over to him, stopping right in front of him. I reached out and gently laid my hand over his large, calloused hand resting on the counter.
Vincent froze, looking down at my small hand against his skin.
“Thank you, Vincent,” I said softly, using his first name for the very first time. “You saved my life.”
“You saved yourself, Amelia,” he said quietly, his voice softening just a fraction. “You walked out of that apartment on Tuesday night. All I did was hold the door open.”
He reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a thick silver pen, and wrote a phone number on the back of my manila envelope.
“That is my private line,” Vincent said. “Not my office. Not my associates. My personal pocket. When you arrive in Boston, you call that number once to let me know you are safe.”
“And after that?” I asked, a sudden, strange sadness pinching my heart.
“After that,” Vincent said, looking into my eyes with a quiet, final resolve, “you live your life. You forget about Tommy, you forget about Hell's Kitchen, and you become the woman you were supposed to be before this city broke you.”
He picked up my canvas bag, handed it to me, and gestured toward the door where Sal was waiting to drive me to the bus station.
I took the bag, looked at Vincent one last time, and nodded.
May you like
“Goodbye, Vincent.”
“Goodbye, Amelia.”
