Chapter 3 - The Men in Charcoal Suits
Carl let go of Sadie’s hair, dropping her to the floor like a discarded rag. She hit the linoleum hard, gasping for air, clutching her ribs as warm blood dripped onto the knees of her uniform skirt.
“Who the hell is that?” Carl muttered, stumbling backward toward the kitchen counter, his eyes darting around the wrecked apartment for a weapon. He grabbed an empty whiskey bottle by the neck, holding it like a club.
The heavy footsteps stopped right outside apartment 3F.
There was no polite knock.
There was only the terrifying, deafening crash of a tactical kick.
The solid oak door exploded inward, splintering into a thousand wooden shards that flew across the room and clattered against the walls. The brass lock twisted out of the frame like a piece of tin foil.
Carl stepped back, raising the whiskey bottle, his face turning ghostly pale. “Get the fuck out of my apartment! I’ve got a—"
He didn't finish the sentence.
Through the ruined doorway stepped two massive men in bespoke charcoal suits, their earpieces glinting under the harsh yellow light. They didn't draw weapons; they moved with the terrifying efficiency of professional contract killers who didn't need guns to break a man in half.
Within two seconds, the first guard had closed the distance, caught Carl’s wrist, and twisted it behind his back with a sickening pop of cartilage. The whiskey bottle slipped from Carl’s fingers, shattering into jagged shards on the floor.
“Agh! What the fuck! Let me go!” Carl shrieked, struggling frantically as the second guard slammed him face-first against the kitchen counter, pinning him so hard the drywall cracked.
Sadie curled into a ball on the floor, trembling violently, her hands pressed over her bleeding mouth. She couldn't process what was happening. One minute she was trapped in her personal hell, and the next, federal-level muscle had kicked her door down as if they were staging a cartel raid.
Then, the sea of dark suits parted.
Ronan Hayes stepped into the apartment.
He didn't look like a man who belonged in a rundown tenement building on 4th Street. His bespoke charcoal suit was immaculate, completely untouched by the rain or the grime of the hallway. His dark hair was still neatly swept back, and his expression was as cold and unreadable as a slab of polished granite.
He glanced around the wrecked living room—the slashed sofa, the scattered clothes, the broken glass—before his dark eyes finally landed on Sadie, huddled on the floor with blood on her chin.
A muscle twitched in Ronan’s jaw. It was the only sign of the absolute fury boiling beneath his calm exterior.
He walked slowly across the room, stepping carefully over the wood splinters, and stopped right beside Sadie.
“Can you stand?” Ronan asked, his voice low, steady, and terrifyingly gentle compared to the violence that had just unfolded.
Sadie couldn't speak. She nodded numbly, wrapping her arms tighter around her bruised ribs.
Ronan didn't wait for her to move on her own. He reached down, slipped one strong arm beneath her shoulders and the other behind her knees, and lifted her effortlessly off the floor, cradling her as though she weighed nothing at all.
Carl thrashed against the kitchen counter, his face pressed flat against the formica. “Hey! Who the fuck do you think you are? Put her down! That’s my girl! That’s—"
Ronan didn't even turn around to look at him. He simply flicked his wrist toward Leo, who stood near the entrance holding a small, silver attaché case.
“Leo,” Ronan said quietly.
“Boss?”
“Break his right hand. Then break the other one for good measure. And make sure he understands why.”
“With pleasure,” Leo smiled, a cold, humorless expression settling over his scarred face as he cracked his knuckles.
“No! No, wait! Please!” Carl began screaming, his voice turning into a high-pitched wail of sheer terror as Leo stepped toward him.
Ronan carried Sadie out of the apartment, stepping over the ruined door frame and walking down the dimly lit hallway. As they descended the stairs, muffled, agonizing screams echoed from the third-floor landing behind them, followed by the sickening crunch of bone.
Sadie buried her face against the lapel of Ronan’s expensive suit, letting out a ragged, broken sob.
She was finally free. But as she sat in the backseat of the idling Maybach a few moments later, watching the rain streak across the tinted window, a cold wave of reality washed over her.
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Men like Ronan Hayes didn't perform midnight rescues out of the goodness of their hearts.
In the underworld, every debt had to be paid. And she had no idea what price the billionaire mafia boss was going to demand in return.
