“Take My Arm,” the Mafia Boss Ordered Quietly—After He Noticed a Stranger Watching His Secretary

The concrete staircase spiraled four stories down beneath the brownstone’s foundation, opening into a dark, damp tunnel that smelled of exhaust and old brickwork.

Vincent led Mave to an unmarked steel door at the end of the corridor. He keyed a mechanical combination into the tumbler, thrown the heavy bolt back, and pushed the door open.

Inside sat an unarmored, nondescript navy blue Ford sedan, completely covered in a canvas dust sheet.

Vincent tore the sheet away, threw the tactical bag into the backseat, and opened the passenger door for Mave.

“Get in.”

Mave climbed inside, her legs shaking so violently she could barely pull her feet over the door frame. Her hands were smeared with drywall dust and rain.

Vincent climbed into the driver’s seat, pulled a hidden mechanical ignition wire from beneath the steering column, and turned it. The V8 engine roared to life with a deep, throaty growl that echoed off the damp concrete walls.

He slammed the car into reverse, backed down a narrow brick tunnel that ran beneath the city street, and burst out into an alleyway three blocks away from the brownstone.

Rain was still pouring from the black sky. In the distance, police sirens began to wail as authorities responded to the gunfire at Vincent’s residence.

Vincent didn't turn on his headlights until they hit the main avenue, blending the blue sedan seamlessly into the late-night Manhattan traffic.

“Where are we going?” Mave asked, pressing her hands against her face to stop the trembling.

“Out of the city,” Vincent said, his hands steady on the wheel. “To a boathouse I own near Cold Spring. Nobody knows about it. Not Leo, not Donovan, not my family.”

Mave looked over at him. A small trickle of blood was running down from his hairline where a piece of flying glass had grazed his forehead.

She pulled a clean handkerchief from the glove compartment, turned in her seat, and gently pressed the cloth against his wound.

Vincent stiffened slightly at the touch, then relaxed, allowing her to dab away the blood as he navigated the dark highway leading north along the Hudson River.

“You killed those men without hesitation,” Mave whispered, looking at the dark road ahead.

“They came into my house to hurt you,” Vincent said simply. “There is no hesitation for that.”

Mave dropped her hand back to her lap, staring at the handkerchief stained with his blood.

“Leo said you were playing legitimate businessman,” she murmured. “Is that true? Were you trying to leave the syndicate?”

Vincent was silent for several miles. The rhythmic thrum of the tires against the wet asphalt was the only sound in the car.

“My father died in a prison hospital six years ago,” Vincent said quietly. “He spent fifty years building an empire that did nothing but destroy everyone who touched it. When I took over, I started cleaning the books. Shifting assets into real estate, shipping, clean energy.”

He glanced over at her.

“I didn't want this life for myself, Mave. And I certainly didn't want it for you.”

“Why did you never tell me?”

“Because as long as you were just 'the secretary,' you were safe,” Vincent said, his voice laced with heavy regret. “The second I treat you like someone who matters to me, the entire city uses you as leverage.”

Mave felt a tight knot form in her chest. She looked at his sharp profile in the dim glow of the dashboard lights.

“And now?” she asked quietly.