Chapter 2 - The Return of the MonsterThe sound of heavy footsteps echoing across the marble foyer shattered the heavy silence of the ballroom.
Elena’s heart slammed against her ribs like a trapped bird. The blood rushed in her ears, drowning out all other sound. Standing in the doorway, shedding his wet wool overcoat and tossing it casually toward a terrified footman, was her husband—or rather, the man legally tied to her by a nightmare of abuse and coercion: Arthur Vance.
Arthur didn't look like a man hiding from the law or walking into a lion's den. He looked like a conqueror returning to his throne. His expensive silk tie was slightly loosened, his amber-brown eyes flashing with alcohol and unearned triumph. He had spent the afternoon playing high-stakes poker with some of the Outfit's mid-level associates, convinced that his burgeoning partnership with the Bennett estate gave him untouchable immunity.
“Bennett!” Arthur called out loudly, his voice echoing off the vaulted ceilings. “Where is the scotch? We need to finalize those shipping manifests before the docks close—!”
Arthur stopped dead in his tracks.
He had rounded the corner from the grand hallway into the ballroom entrance, expecting to find cowering domestic staff or empty marble floors. Instead, he found the most feared man in Chicago standing two feet away from his wife, holding her scarred wrist with a grip that looked less like an interrogation and more like a death warrant.
Arthur’s arrogant smile froze on his face. The color drained from his skin, leaving him looking pasty and sickly under the crystal chandeliers.
“V-Mr. Moretti,” Arthur stammered, his voice pitching upward in sheer panic as he instinctively took a half-step backward. “I... I didn't realize you were inspecting the property today. I apologize if my staff was in your way—”
Vincent Moretti did not release Elena’s wrist. He slowly turned his head away from her, his gray eyes locking onto Arthur Vance with the terrifying stillness of a panther about to strike.
The two armed guards behind Vincent immediately shifted their weight, their hands snapping to their sidearms with practiced, lethal efficiency. The air in the room dropped ten degrees.
“Your staff?” Vincent asked, his voice low, measured, and lethally smooth. “Is that what you call the woman you forced to clean up your mess?”
Arthur swallowed hard, his throat bobbing frantically. He forced a weak, nervous chuckle, trying desperately to regain his footing. “Ah... Elena? Oh, she’s just domestic help, sir. You know how these women from the lower districts are—clumsy, always getting themselves into accidents. She probably tripped over a bucket.”
Elena flinched violently at the lie. Every muscle in her body locked up.
Vincent’s eyes narrowed into microscopic slits. He looked back down at Elena’s arm—at the silvery surgical lines, the welts, and the distinct circular burn wrapped around her wrist like a branding iron—and then back up at Arthur.
“Accidents,” Vincent repeated, tasting the word on his tongue like poison.
“Yes, exactly!” Arthur babbled, emboldened by his own desperate need to survive, taking a foolish step forward and pointing an accusatory finger at Elena. “She’s always scratching herself, always crying about something. If she’s bothering you, Mr. Moretti, I can fire her right now. Throw her out on the street where she belongs. She’s completely useless anyway—!”
Before Arthur could finish the sentence, Vincent moved.
It wasn't a rush; it was a blur of calculated violence. In less than a second, Vincent released Elena’s hand, stepped past her, crossed the polished marble floor, and grabbed Arthur by the throat with one hand, hoisting him six inches off the ground.
Arthur let out a strangled gasp, his legs kicking wildly in the air, his hands clawing desperately at Vincent’s iron grip. His face turned a deep, alarming shade of purple as his air supply was ruthlessly cut off.
“Sir—!” one of Arthur’s visiting associates shouted, rushing into the room from the hallway, only to find himself staring down the barrel of a silenced Glock held immovably by Vincent’s lead guard. The associate froze, pressing his back against the wall with his hands raised.
“You talk too much, Arthur,” Vincent whispered, his voice dangerously soft as he leaned his face close to the suffocating man. “And you lie even worse. I recognize those burns. I know what a chemical splash looks like. And I know what a man looks like when he breaks his wife’s bones for sport.”
“M-Mr. Moretti... please...” Arthur choked out, tears streaming down his flushed face, his fingers losing their strength as he began to suffocate.
Elena stood frozen, her chest heaving, watching the monster who had terrorized her for years dangling like a broken toy in the grip of an even greater monster.
Vincent looked back over his shoulder, his cold gray eyes locking onto Elena’s trembling form.
“Is this the man who did this to you?” Vincent asked quietly.
May you like
Elena’s lips parted. She wanted to nod. She wanted to scream yes. But the terror of a thousand beatings whispered in the back of her mind, warning her that men like Arthur always found a way back unless they were completely eradicated.
Before she could speak, Vincent tightened his grip just enough to make Arthur groan in agony, answering the question for her without needing a single word.
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