Chapter 5 - The Ambush at Erie Street
The Mercedes Maybach idling outside Clara’s apartment building was accompanied by two black SUVs filled with armed Moretti enforcers.
The rain had stopped, leaving the streets of River North slick and dark under the overcast November sky.
Vincent walked beside Clara into the lobby of her apartment building. The building concierge, a young man who usually ignored Clara, took one look at Vincent and the four hulking men in suits behind him and instantly lowered his head, pressing the elevator button for them without a word.
They rode up to the fourth floor in silence. The air in the carpeted hallway felt thick, heavy with tension.
When they reached Apartment 4B, Clara reached into her purse for her keys, but Vincent grabbed her elbow, pulling her back behind his broad chest.
"Wait," Vincent whispered.
He pointed to the brass door handle. Tiny scratches marked the metal near the keyhole. Someone had picked the lock.
Vincent drew a dark, silenced pistol from inside his tailored jacket with practiced ease. Leo drew his weapon as well, stepping to the left of the frame.
Vincent gave Leo a single nod. Leo kicked the door open with a deafening crash.
Inside the apartment, two men in leather jackets were frantically tearing through Clara’s closets, ripping couch cushions apart, and smashing dishes on the kitchen floor.
"Drop your weapons!" Leo roared, stepping into the room.
One of the men spun around, reaching for a gun tucked into his waistband.
Vincent didn't hesitate. He fired two silent shots. The bullets struck the man in the chest, dropping him instantly onto the hardwood floor. The second intruder threw his hands into the air, falling to his knees, screaming in terror.
Clara gasped, covering her mouth with both hands, her back pressed hard against the hallway wall. She had never seen a man shot before. The terrifying speed, the utter lack of emotion on Vincent’s face—it was a brutal reminder of the world he ruled.
Vincent walked into the living room, stepping over the bleeding man on the floor, and grabbed the second intruder by his collar, dragging him up until their faces were inches apart.
"Who sent you?" Vincent asked, his voice deathly quiet.
"Salvatore!" the man sobbed, his eyes wide with fear. "Salvatore sent us from Cicero! We were looking for the girl’s financial records! Please, don't kill me!"
"Tell Salvatore," Vincent said softly, "that Clara Jenkins belongs to Vincent Moretti now. And if any of his men come near her again, I will burn Cicero to the ground."
Vincent slammed the man’s head against the wall, knocking him unconscious, then tossed him onto the floor beside his dead partner.
Vincent turned to Clara, who stood in the doorway, trembling violently, her eyes wide with shock.
He walked over to her, holstering his gun, and carefully cupped her pale face in his hands.
"Are you hurt?" he asked softly, searching her eyes.
"No," she whispered, her voice shaking. "I... I’m okay."
"Get the hard drive, Clara," Vincent said gently. "We’re leaving."
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Clara walked into her destroyed bedroom, picked up a small oil painting of the Chicago skyline off the floor, broke the wooden backing, and pulled out a tiny silver USB flash drive.
She walked back out into the living room, handed the drive to Vincent, and stepped over the blood on her floor without looking down. She was done with her old life. She was done being a victim.
