Chapter 6 - The Shadows Close In
Two days after spotting the SUV, the reality of my danger materialized in the worst possible way. It was not Vincent’s men who found me first; it was the vultures circling his territory.
While Vincent had turned Chicago upside down searching for me, his rivals—the notorious Casales—had noticed his sudden distraction, the internal chaos, and the disappearance of the Boss's wife. A don distracted by grief is a don waiting to be slaughtered. Don Casale had pieced together the trail, hunting me down not to help Vincent, but to use me as the ultimate leverage to bring the Moretti syndicate to its knees.
I was unlocking my front door after an evening shift when a gloved hand clamped tightly over my mouth, dragging me violently backward into the snow. A muffled scream caught in my throat as my maternal instincts took over instantly. I twisted, kicking hard against my assailant's shins, curling my body into a tight ball to protect my pregnant belly at all costs.
"Shut up, Donna Moretti," a harsh voice growled in my ear. "You're our ticket to ending your husband once and for all."
A second man stepped out of the shadows, pulling zip-ties from his pocket. Panic surged through my veins like ice water. If they took me to Casale, my baby would not survive the interrogation. I bit down with all my strength on the gloved hand covering my mouth. The man roared in pain, momentarily loosening his grip.
"Help!" I screamed into the freezing night air. "Help me!"
The second man lunged forward, raising the butt of a heavy pistol to strike my temple. I braced for the impact, squeezing my eyes shut and wrapping both arms firmly around my unborn child.
The strike never landed.
A sharp, deafening crack echoed through the snowy street. The man with the pistol collapsed face-first into the snow, a crimson stain blossoming across his chest. Before the man holding me could react, a tall, terrifying shadow materialized from the gloom like an avenging demon. A gloved hand seized my attacker by the throat, lifting him clear off his feet and slamming him into the cedar siding of the cottage with bone-crushing force.
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It was Vincent.
His eyes were completely black with homicidal fury, his breathing ragged, his face gaunt and pale under the streetlights. With a brutal, precise twist of his wrists, the second attacker slumped lifeless to the porch. Vincent stood over the bodies, the smoking silenced pistol in his hand. Then, he turned slowly toward me.
