Chapter 4 - The wolf's pursuit
The rain battered the windshield of Vincent's luxury car as he tore through the barricades outside the Manhattan hotel. He did not wait for the valet. He slammed the vehicle into park near the grand entrance, stepping out into the torrential downpour. The black Italian designer suit clung to his broad-shouldered, muscular frame, but he felt absolutely no cold. The only sensation registering in his mind was a blinding, apocalyptic rage.
His phone had gone dead precisely two minutes ago. The shattered static had echoed in his ear, followed by a profound, terrifying silence. Bella had been hiding in the restroom, moving toward the east corridor. But something in her voice had been wrong. The pitch, the cadence—it lacked the desperate panic he knew intimately. It was the voice of a woman reciting a script under duress.
He breached the hotel lobby, flanked by his four most loyal enforcers. The grand space was in a state of chaotic panic. Elite guests were screaming, herded against the marble walls by heavily armed men wearing generic tactical gear. Vincent did not slow his pace. He drew a sleek, suppressed pistol from his shoulder holster, moving with the terrifying, lethal grace of an apex predator.
When the first tactical operative stepped into his path, raising a rifle, Vincent did not hesitate. He fired twice, precise, devastating shots that dropped the man instantly. The lobby erupted into a brief, violent firefight, but Vincent’s enforcers were seasoned killers, violently clearing a path toward the east wing.
Vincent ignored the falling bodies, his piercing gray eyes locked onto his destination. He reached the heavy mahogany doors of the women's restroom and kicked them open with shattering force.
The room was bathed in the sinister, pulsating glow of the red emergency lights. Vincent swept the space with the barrel of his weapon. It was empty. He moved to the furthest stall, his heart hammering against his ribs. The door was slightly ajar, the flimsy metal latch bent inward. He stepped inside.
Lying on the cream-marble floor, crushed violently against the brass hinge, were the shattered remains of Isabella’s mobile phone.
Vincent knelt slowly, picking up the broken device. The screen was spider-webbed, the casing warped by immense physical pressure. He stared at it, the blood running cold in his veins. The tactical team in the lobby was heavily armed, but they were executing a loud, clumsy siege. The person who had entered this stall and crushed this phone possessed a quiet, terrifying strength and precision.
Boss, one of his enforcers called out from the doorway, his weapon trained on the hallway. The east corridor is clear. She never made it to the service elevator. The tactical squad was sweeping the wrong wing.
Vincent stood up, his rugged square jaw setting into a mask of pure, unadulterated murder. They weren't looking for her, Vincent said, his voice a low, vibrating rumble that chilled the blood of his own men. They were looking for me. They used the panic to herd me into the hotel. The man who took my wife wasn't part of this hit squad.
Who else knew she was here? the enforcer asked, scanning the perimeter.
Vincent closed his eyes, his mind replaying the last hour with agonizing clarity. When the first signs of the mutiny appeared, he had made one phone call to secure his wife. A phone call to a man he had sworn to destroy, but the only man he knew possessed the resources to extract her invisibly. He had given Dante the coordinates.
But Dante was supposed to hold her at the extraction point. Dante was supposed to wait for Vincent to arrive. By crushing the phone and forcing Isabella to lie about her location, Dante had broken the protocol.
Get the architect of this mutiny on the phone, Vincent commanded, stalking out of the restroom. Find out which of my lieutenants ordered the strike squad. I want his head on a spike before sunrise.
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And what about Dante? the enforcer asked, rushing to keep pace with the furious mafia boss.
Vincent stepped out into the rain-slicked street, his beautiful black tattoos seeming to darken under the stormy sky. Dante just signed his own death warrant, Vincent stated, the absolute finality in his voice ringing like a funeral bell. He took my wife. I am going to burn his empire to the ground, and I am going to tear him apart with my bare hands. The wolf had lost his mate, and the entire city was about to bleed for it.
