Chapter 3 - Breaking the Door Down
The hallway of the tenement building smelled of damp concrete, cheap cooking oil, and old copper.
My boots made a heavy, rhythmic thud against the stairwell steps as I ascended to the third floor, flanked by four of my most elite enforcers. They moved like shadows behind me, their suppressed submachine guns tucked tightly against their chests, eyes scanning every dark corner. They weren't just bodyguards anymore; they were an execution squad.
When we reached Apartment 3B, the door was already half-splintered. The frame hung loosely on a single, bent hinge, scarred by heavy kicks. From inside came the muffled sound of cruel laughter, a woman’s desperate sob, and the sickening thud of a fist hitting flesh.
My blood turned to liquid nitrogen.
I didn't knock. I didn't announce myself.
With a single, vicious kick of my heel, the wooden door exploded inward, tearing off its remaining hinge and crashing against the linoleum floor with a deafening bang.
The two thugs inside—burly men covered in crude prison tattoos, wearing cheap leather jackets—froze instantly, their heads snapping toward the doorway. One of them had a heavy silver chain wrapped around his knuckles; the other held a bruised, bleeding woman by her hair, pulling her up from the floor.
The woman looked up, her face a mask of purple bruises and drying blood, her dark hair matted with sweat.
For a single, impossible second, the world stopped spinning.
Looking into her terrified, battered eyes felt like staring into a mirror reflecting a ghost. The bone structure, the shape of the jaw, the haunting, expressive depth of her eyes—she looked so much like Maria it felt as though the grave had opened up and handed me a second chance at a tragedy I had spent thirty years mourning.
“What the—?” the thug holding her gasped, dropping his hand from her hair and fumbling for the snub-nosed revolver tucked into his waistband.
He never got his hand past his belt.
I didn't waste time speaking. I raised my Sig Sauer and fired twice.
Crack. Crack.
The suppressed shots sounded like heavy staples hitting wood, but the impact was absolute. The man spun backward, dropping dead before his knees hit the floor.
The second thug panicked, lunging toward the kitchen counter where a rusted butcher knife lay exposed.
Before he could touch it, one of my enforcers stepped into the room like a freight train, driving the butt of a tactical rifle into the back of the man's knees. The enforcer collapsed with a shriek, and a swift, merciless stomp to the temple silenced him permanently.
In less than four seconds, the room was dead silent, save for the heavy, ragged breathing of the woman huddled on the floor.
I holstered my weapon, stepping past the bodies without a glance. I knelt down beside the battered woman, keeping my movements slow and deliberate so I wouldn't frighten her further.
“Don't move,” I said, my voice rough, carrying an undertone of fierce, protective urgency that surprised even me.
She blinked through swollen, tear-filled eyes, looking up at the tailored suit, the blood-spattered cuffs, and the cold, unyielding face of the man the entire city whispered about in terror.
“Sophie...?” she choked out, her voice cracking as blood welled from the corner of her split lip. “Where... where is my baby?”
“She’s safe,” I said, gently resting a warm, calloused hand against her uninjured shoulder. “She’s in my car, waiting with my men. You’re safe now, too.”
The woman let out a long, shuddering sob, her body trembling uncontrollably as the adrenaline finally crashed. She collapsed forward, her forehead resting against my chest, staining my white dress shirt with her blood and tears.
I wrapped my arm around her, holding her securely against me. As I looked down at her face, a cold, dark realization settled over my mind like a shroud.
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Julian Rossi hadn't just sent random thugs to rough up a random civilian on the South Side. This was a targeted strike. And the message wasn't meant for her.
It was meant for me.
