Chapter 4 - The Phantom in the Shadows
A week later, the winter winds had turned the streets of Manhattan into frozen wind tunnels. I was leaving an obstetrician appointment on the Upper East Side. Dr. Sterling had confirmed that the baby was a healthy, vigorous boy, his heart beating like a miniature drum at 145 beats per minute. I held the new ultrasound envelope inside my purse, a radiant warmth spreading through my chest despite the bitter chill outside.
As I stepped through the revolving glass doors toward my waiting car, my two bodyguards—David and Lev—moved into flanking positions immediately.
""Everything clear, Ms. Moretti,"" David muttered into his lapel mic. ""Car is curbside.""
Then, out of the heavy evening pedestrian traffic, a tall figure emerged from the shadows of an awning across the avenue.
My breath caught in my throat. The world seemed to stop spinning.
He wore a long, bespoke charcoal wool coat, unbuttoned despite the freezing wind. His jaw was covered in dark stubble, his hollowed cheeks giving him the look of a starved predator. His dark eyes—the same eyes that had once looked at me with lazy arrogance across five-star restaurant tables—locked directly onto mine.
Vincent.
He had lost weight. The sharp, untouchable mafia Don looked battered, wild, and utterly untamed.
""Claire!"" His voice ripped through the honking yellow cabs and street noise, raw and desperate.
He lunged forward, breaking into a run across the slush-covered asphalt, ignoring the screech of braking taxis.
""Ma'am, get in the vehicle now!"" David barked, grabbing my arm and shoving me toward the open door of the armored suburban. Lev drew his Glock from under his armpit, keeping it tucked low against his thigh, his eyes locked on the oncoming threat.
""Claire, stop! Please!"" Vincent shouted. He made it across the double yellow lines, dodging a swerving delivery van. His coat billowed behind him. His eyes weren't those of a terrifying syndicate leader; they were the eyes of a drowning man watching his last lifeline snap.
""Hold it right there!"" Lev bellowed, raising the weapon to low-ready and stepping directly into Vincent’s path. ""One more step and I drop you on this pavement!""
Vincent didn't even look at the gun. His eyes were glued to me as I stood frozen by the SUV's open door.
And then, his gaze dropped downward.
I hadn't zipped my winter coat. My heavy knit sweater hugged the prominent, undeniable curve of my six-month pregnant belly.
Vincent stopped dead in his tracks. The color drained from his face until he was as pale as the snow piling on the curb. His lips parted, trembling violently. He stared at my stomach as if he had just witnessed an impossible miracle—or an unimaginable nightmare.
""Claire...?"" he choked out, his voice cracking down the middle. He raised a shaking hand toward me, stepping forward blindly. ""What... what is that? Is that...""
""Drive!"" I screamed at David, throwing myself backward into the leather seats. ""David, get in and drive!""
""Claire, wait! Look at me! Talk to me!"" Vincent lunged for the door handle, but Lev slammed a heavy combat boot into his chest, sending the mafia boss staggering backward onto the icy sidewalk.
The heavy SUV door slammed shut with a vault-like thud. The engine roared, tires spinning for a fraction of a second against the slush before catching traction and rocketing us into the flow of traffic.
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Through the tinted ballistic glass of the rear window, I looked back.
Vincent Moretti, the terror of Chicago, was on his knees in the middle of a filthy New York street, snow dusting his hair, staring after my car with tears streaming unchecked down his bruised, frozen face.
