Chapter 8 - The Wrath of the Capo
"Nowhere to run, little bird," the second enforcer snarled, pulling a heavy steel pipe from his coat, the metal scraping against the brick wall with a sickening screech.
Clara raised her pepper spray again, but her hand shook violently. She knew two armed men would overpower her in seconds. For a fleeting second, regret flashed through her mind—not for standing up to Lorenzo, but for ever letting herself get entangled in his terrifying world.
Just as the enforcer raised the pipe to strike, the brick wall above them echoed with a sudden, deafening roar of engine acceleration.
Screeeech!
A matte-black Cadillac Escalade drifted into the alleyway with impossible precision, its high beams slamming on to flood the dark space with blinding, celestial light. The heavy doors flew open before the vehicle had even come to a complete stop.
Silas and four tactical guards poured out like a flood of vengeance, moving with terrifying, military-grade efficiency. In less than three seconds, the two Russian enforcers were disarmed, swept off their feet, and pinned facedown against the wet asphalt with boots pressing heavily into their spines.
And then, stepping out from the back seat of the Escalade, came Lorenzo Moretti.
He wasn't wearing his usual composed, immaculate expression. His dark hair was slightly tousled, his tie loosened, and his steel eyes burned with a primal, apocalyptic fury that made even his own guards look away in terror. He walked toward the corner of the alley where Clara stood shaking, his boots splashing through the puddles.
"Clara," he breathed, his voice dropping every trace of cool detachment as he reached her, grabbing her by the shoulders to inspect her for injuries. "Are you hurt? Did they touch you?"
"I... I'm fine," Clara stammered, her tough exterior finally cracking slightly as the adrenaline rush began to fade. "I got one of them with pepper spray, but... how did you know?"
"I never take my eyes off my investments," Lorenzo murmured, pulling her gently against his chest in a protective embrace that shielded her completely from the chaos around them.
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He turned his cold gaze toward the groaning Russian enforcers pinned to the ground. He signaled Silas with a single, brutal flick of his wrist.
"Take them to the docks," Lorenzo said, his voice dropping to a terrifying, quiet whisper. "Tell Viktor Rostov that the next time his men breathe near her, I won't just burn his warehouses—I'll mount his head on the front gates of Brighton Beach."
