Chapter 2 - EIGHT MINUTES LATER, VINCENT MORETTI WALKED THROUGH MY FRONT DOOR
The bedroom door cracked again before Vincent’s promised eight minutes were over.
I backed toward the window with my phone clutched in one hand and a brass lamp in the other.
“Evan, stop!”
My husband laughed from the hallway.
“You going to hit me with a lamp now?”
His mistress laughed too.
I finally knew her name.
Vanessa Crane.
I had seen it on his phone months earlier and believed his explanation that she worked with one of his clients.
Apparently her job description included sleeping in my bed.
The door shook again.
Wood splintered around the lock.
I looked toward the window.
Six floors down.
No fire escape.
No second way out.
“Evan, the police are coming.”
“They’ll hear you attacked me.”
My stomach dropped.
“What?”
“You threw things.”
“I threw nothing.”
“You locked yourself in here acting insane.”
Vanessa added sweetly from the hallway, “And I saw the whole thing.”
Of course she did.
They were building a story already.
My husband had slapped me, shoved me into a table, prevented me from leaving the apartment, and now his mistress planned to become his witness.
For five years, I had believed Evan Cole was simply selfish.
In that moment, I understood something colder.
He was prepared.
“Open the door,” he said.
“No.”
“Lena.”
Another impact.
The lock plate ripped partially from the frame.
I lifted the lamp.
Then something changed outside.
Silence.
Complete.
Vanessa stopped laughing.
Evan stopped pounding.
I heard voices farther down the apartment.
Male.
Low.
Controlled.
Then Evan said, “Who the hell are you?”
A man answered.
“You know exactly who I am.”
Even through the damaged door, I recognized Vincent Moretti’s voice.
My knees nearly gave out.
He had come.
Actually come.
Evan’s tone changed immediately.
Not respectful.
Frightened.
“This is private.”
Vincent replied, “A woman called me because you locked her in a room.”
“My wife is having an episode.”
There it was.
The story.
I pressed one hand over my mouth.
Vincent didn’t raise his voice.
“Then move away from the door.”
“You can’t enter my apartment.”
“I already did.”
I almost laughed despite everything.
Vanessa whispered something.
Evan snapped at her to be quiet.
Then Vincent spoke again.
“Lena?”
“I’m here.”
My voice broke.
“Are you injured?”
“My face. My shoulder. I think I’m okay.”
“Is the door locked from your side?”
“Yes.”
“Can you open it?”
I looked at the splintered frame.
“Yes.”
“Only if you want to.”
Those five words mattered more than I expected.
Only if you want to.
Not open it.
Not come here.
Not obey.
Choice.
I set the lamp down.
Unlocked the door.
Pulled.
It stuck where the broken wood had shifted.
Someone on the other side did not yank.
Vincent said, “Slowly.”
I pulled harder.
The door opened four inches.
Then eight.
Then enough for me to see the hallway.
Vincent Moretti stood ten feet away wearing a charcoal coat over a black suit.
Three men stood behind him.
None held visible weapons.
They did not need to.
Evan was against the wall.
Vanessa stood beside the living-room sofa, pale now, her wineglass abandoned on the table.
Vincent’s eyes found my face.
His expression changed.
Not dramatically.
That was what made it frightening.
He looked at the red mark along my cheek.
Then at Evan.
“What happened to her?”
Evan laughed too quickly.
“She fell.”
I said, “He slapped me.”
The room went still.
Vincent looked back at me.
“Did he prevent you from leaving?”
“Yes.”
“He shoved me.”
“And locked you inside?”
“He locked the apartment door, took my keys, and stood outside the bedroom after I locked myself in.”
Vincent nodded once.
Then he took out his phone.
Evan stared.
“What are you doing?”
“Calling the police.”
That surprised everyone.
Especially me.
I had expected something else from New York’s most feared mafia boss.
Something darker.
Something that would make me regret dialing his number.
Instead he called emergency services.
“My name is Vincent Moretti.”
He gave the address.
“There is a woman here reporting domestic assault and unlawful restraint.”
Evan’s face turned white.
“You’re calling cops?”
Vincent looked at him.
“Yes.”
“You?”
“Yes.”
The single word almost sounded amused.
Evan recovered enough arrogance to point toward me.
“She’s lying because she caught me cheating.”
Vincent’s gaze hardened.
“That sentence did not help you.”
Vanessa moved toward her purse.
One of Vincent’s men stepped sideways.
Not blocking her exactly.
Making it clear everyone was staying until law enforcement arrived.
Vanessa stopped.
Then she looked at me.
“This is insane.”
I stared at her.
“You were laughing while he tried to break down the door.”
She crossed her arms.
“I didn’t know he hit you.”
“You said you saw everything.”
Silence.
Her lie had lasted less than three minutes.
Vincent noticed too.
Good.
Evan’s phone began ringing on the table.
He ignored it.
Then again.
And again.
Vincent looked at screen.
I couldn’t see the name.
Evan did.
His entire face changed.
Not fear of police.
Something worse.
He lunged for phone.
One of Vincent’s men caught his wrist.
Not violently.
Enough.
Vincent picked up the phone and looked at the caller ID.
Then he turned to Evan.
“Why is Dominic Serrano calling you?”
I had never heard the name.
Vanessa had.
Her mouth opened.
Vincent saw.
“What?”
He asked her.
She shook her head.
“Nothing.”
“Wrong answer.”
Evan pulled free.
“You don’t get to touch my phone.”
Vincent set it down.
“I don’t need to.”
Then the phone stopped.
A text appeared across lock screen.
I could read it from where I stood.
WE HAVE A PROBLEM. MORETTI KNOWS?
My skin went cold.
Vincent looked at me.
Not Evan.
“Lena, get your shoes.”
“What?”
“Police are coming.”
“Yes.”
“You should not stay here tonight.”
Evan shouted, “She lives here!”
Vincent did not even look at him.
“Does she own the lease?”
I answered.
“Both names.”
“Good.”
Then to me:
“You choose where you sleep.”
Again.
Choice.
I entered bedroom.
My hands shook while I packed a bag.
Clothes.
Medication.
Passport.
Important documents.
Then I remembered something.
Our filing cabinet.
Evan kept tax returns there.
Bank statements.
I went toward it.
He stepped into the hallway.
“What are you doing?”
Vincent moved between us.
Not touching.
Just occupying space.
I opened drawer.
My passport.
Marriage certificate.
My old social-security card.
Then a blue folder I had never seen.
Inside:
Bank statements.
An LLC named Cole Hospitality Services.
My name listed as fifty-percent owner.
I stared.
“I don’t own this.”
Evan’s face emptied.
Vincent turned.
“What is it?”
I handed him nothing.
Important.
I held documents myself.
“An LLC.”
“Mine and Evan’s.”
“I’ve never seen it.”
Vincent looked at Evan.
Then Vanessa.
Vanessa suddenly grabbed her coat.
“I’m leaving.”
Sirens sounded below.
Too late.
Two NYPD officers arrived first.
Then a supervisor.
Vincent moved backward immediately.
Let me speak.
I told everything.
The slap.
Shove.
Keys.
Door.
Call.
They photographed my face.
The damaged bedroom door.
Hall table.
My broken phone charger where Evan had apparently yanked it loose.
Evan insisted it was a misunderstanding.
Then an officer asked:
“Did you prevent your wife from leaving?”
“No.”
I said, “My keys are in his pocket.”
Silence.
Officer searched with legal procedure after arrest decision.
My keys were there.
Evan was handcuffed.
His expression when metal closed around his wrists was not guilt.
It was disbelief.
He had believed the apartment belonged to his version of reality.
Vanessa started crying.
Police asked whether she had participated.
She immediately said:
“He told me Lena was unstable.”
Evan turned.
“You lying bitch.”
And there went their united story.
By 11:30 p.m., Evan was gone.
Vanessa left after giving statement.
Vincent remained in the hallway.
Not inside the bedroom.
Not touching my things.
“Where are you going?”
He asked.
“My friend Tasha.”
“Does Evan know where she lives?”
“Yes.”
“Another place?”
I thought.
A motel?
My mother lived in Ohio.
I had little money.
Eviction? Not at moment, but waitress wages.
Vincent said:
“I have a hotel.”
I looked at him.
“No.”
“Okay.”
That surprised me.
Then:
“I can pay for a hotel you choose under your name.”
“No.”
“Okay.”
Again.
No argument.
One of his men spoke quietly.
“There’s a women’s shelter contact through St. Catherine’s.”
Vincent nodded.
“That’s an option.”
I looked at him.
“You know a shelter?”
His expression changed.
“My sister used one once.”
Before I could ask more, he continued.
“You do not owe me your trust because I showed up.”
The words landed hard.
“Then why did you?”
He looked toward the black business card still on my nightstand.
“Because months ago, when three men at your diner were humiliating a dishwasher who barely spoke English, you stood between them and told them they could leave.”
I remembered.
Barely.
“They were drunk.”
“They were mine.”
I stared.
“Your men?”
“Employees.”
“Former employees.”
“You fired them?”
“Yes.”
“Because I yelled at them?”
“Because you showed me what they did when they thought nobody important was watching.”
My chest tightened.
That was why the card.
Not spilled coffee.
That had merely been the excuse.
Vincent looked at the blue folder in my hands.
Then at Evan being led toward elevator.
“You should give that to a lawyer.”
“I don’t have one.”
“I know one.”
Of course he did.
“Will she work for you?”
“No.”
“Good.”
He handed me another card.
Margaret Sloan — Attorney at Law.
“Call her yourself.”
He did not make the call.
Good.
Then Vincent’s phone buzzed.
He looked at it.
His face changed.
“What?”
I asked.
He hesitated.
“You don’t need this tonight.”
“That is not answer.”
His eyes met mine.
“Dominic Serrano is not someone your husband should know.”
“Who is he?”
“A man who has spent ten years trying to take pieces of my business.”
“Legal business?”
Vincent almost smiled.
“Some.”
“Illegal?”
Silence.
There was my answer.
I should have stepped away.
Instead, I looked at the blue folder.
“My name is on something I didn’t sign.”
“Yes.”
“Dominic texted Evan asking if you knew.”
“Yes.”
“So this is connected to me now.”
Vincent’s expression hardened.
“It was connected before you called.”
That scared me more than anything else.
“What does that mean?”
He looked toward the elevator where Evan had disappeared.
“I think your husband has been using you for more than a marriage.”
May you like
And suddenly the worst thing Evan had done that night was no longer sleeping with Vanessa.
It was putting my name somewhere dangerous enough that a mafia boss recognized it.
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