Chapter 4 - The Last Stand
Two weeks later, Brandon Cross returned.
It wasn't at Bellacort. He knew better than to test Vincent Duca’s territory directly. Instead, he intercepted her on Thursday evening as she walked out of the clinic after her therapy session.
The snow was beginning to fall in fat, wet flakes that stuck to the pavement.
"Elena."
She stopped dead. Her hand dropped inside her coat pocket, wrapping around the heavy metal canister of pepper spray she had carried since she was twenty-one.
Brandon looked unraveled. His coat was unbuttoned, his tie loose, his eyes bloodshot. He had lost weight. The aristocratic polish that had once made him look untouchable was entirely gone, replaced by the desperate, manic energy of a man whose world had collapsed around him.
"You ruined everything," Brandon hissed, stepping into her path beneath the flickering amber streetlamp. "My father cut me off. My accounts are frozen. The bank called my mortgage. They said it was a portfolio audit... but it wasn't. It was him. That animal you've been sleeping with."
Elena didn't flinch. She stepped forward, standing her ground. "I don't sleep with him, Brandon. And you brought every single bit of this on yourself."
"You think you're safe?" He lunged forward, his hand clawing toward her arm. "You think some old criminal can protect you from—"
He didn't finish the sentence.
A black sedan slid silently against the curb beside them. The rear door swung open with a smooth, oiled click. Two men in dark coats stepped out with the quiet inevitability of an avalanche. They didn't draw weapons; they didn't need to. They simply closed the distance between Brandon and Elena in three synchronized strides.
One of them caught Brandon by the elbow with a grip that made the younger man gasp in sudden, sharp pain. The other placed a heavy hand squarely on the back of Brandon’s neck, forcing him down against the hood of the car.
"Get your hands off me! Do you know who I am?!" Brandon shrieked, thrashing blindly in the snow.
The man holding him didn't speak. He simply applied enough pressure to pin Brandon flat against the cold metal.
The rear door of the sedan opened wider.
Vincent Duca stepped out onto the snowy sidewalk. He wore a heavy wool overcoat, his silver-streaked hair catching the white light of the streetlamp. He didn't look at Brandon. He looked directly at Elena, assessing her as a general might assess an officer after a skirmish.
"Are you harmed?" Vincent asked.
"No," Elena said, her voice steady and clear. "I'm not."
Vincent finally turned his gaze toward Brandon, who was currently whimpering against the hood of the car, his cheek pressed into the freezing slush.
"Brandon," Vincent said softly.
The younger man froze, trembling violently.
"Your father’s assets are currently under receivership," Vincent said, stepping closer until his polished leather shoes rested inches from Brandon’s flailing hands. "Your apartment has been repossessed. Your car is registered to a corporate entity that was dissolved this morning. You do not exist in this city anymore."
"Please," Brandon choked out, tears mixing with melting snow on his face. "Please, just—let me go. I'll leave the state. I swear to God, I'll never come back—"
"You won't," Vincent agreed. "Because if you ever cross the county line again, my associates won't just freeze your accounts. They will bury you so deep in federal tax fraud indictments that you won't see daylight until you're seventy years old."
Vincent turned to the two men holding him. "Put him in the back. Take him to the Greyhound station at the state line. Buy him a ticket to Omaha. Make sure he boards."
"Yes, boss."
Brandon was hauled up, kicking and crying, and shoved into the back of the sedan. The door slammed shut with a heavy, muffled thud. The vehicle pulled away into the swirling snow, disappearing into the dark New York night as silently as it had arrived.
The sidewalk was quiet again. Just the sound of falling snow and the distant hum of city traffic.
Vincent turned back to Elena. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small, heavy silver cigarette case, though he didn't open it.
"You should have called my office," Vincent said mildly. "You didn't need to walk alone tonight."
"I can take care of myself," Elena replied, though there was no defiance in her voice now—only truth.
May you like
"I know," Vincent said. He gestured toward a second black car idling a few yards away. "Get in. I'll have Marcus drive you to your new address."
Elena hesitated for a single heartbeat. Then, she walked past him, opened the door of the car, and slid into the warm leather interior.
