Chapter 4 - A Dangerous Debtor
The cold rushed into the car for a fraction of a second before the heavy door thudded shut.
Through the tinted glass, I watched in terrified fascination. Dominic didn't hurry. He walked with a smooth, lethal grace, his black overcoat billowing slightly in the winter wind. Behind him, his two bodyguards—hulking men in dark suits—stepped out of the front seats, their expressions devoid of emotion.
The three thugs on the stoop laughed at first. One of them, a greasy-haired man with a scar splitting his upper lip, spat a mouthful of tobacco onto the snow and took a step forward.
"Private block, pal," the scarred man sneered, patting the pocket where a gun or knife was clearly concealed. "Turn your pretty town car around before we strip the rims."
Dominic stopped two feet away. He towered over the thug.
"You're in my way," Dominic said simply.
The scarred man laughed, looking at his buddies. "Hear this clown? Listen, rich boy, the lady who lives on the third floor owes our boss five grand in back interest. Unless you're here to cut a check for her deadbeat husband's debts, you better crawl back into your—"
The man never finished his sentence.
In a movement so fast my eyes could barely track it, Dominic grabbed the man by the throat with one hand, lifted him off his feet, and slammed him spine-first into the rusted iron handrail of the stoop. The sound of metal groaning echoed through the empty street.
The other two thugs reached into their jackets, but Dominic’s guards were faster. Two muffled clicks sounded. Before Kruse’s men could draw their weapons, the guards had heavy semi-automatic pistols pressed directly beneath their ears.
"Don't," one of Dominic's guards whispered coldly.
The entire street seemed to freeze. The scarred thug was clawing at Dominic’s hand, his face turning an alarming shade of purple, feet kicking uselessly in the air.
Dominic leaned in, speaking in a low, measured voice that made my spine tingle even from inside the car.
"Victor Kruse runs penny-ante poker games out of a butcher shop on Grand Street," Dominic murmured. "He pays kickbacks to the Russo family just to keep his fingers attached to his hands. Do you know who collects from the Russos?"
The thug’s eyes widened with pure, unadulterated horror as recognition finally crashed through his thick skull. His lips moved soundlessly around a single word: *Moretti.*
"Yes," Dominic whispered softly. "Now tell Victor that Sarah Miller's debt is cleared. Tell him that if he, or any of his roaches, comes within three blocks of this building, I will personally hang him from the rafters of his own freezer. Do you understand me?"
The man nodded frantically, choking for air.
Dominic released his grip. The thug crashed to the icy pavement, gasping and clutching his bruised throat.
"Get out of my sight," Dominic said.
The three men didn't hesitate. They scrambled across the ice like terrified rats, abandoning their positions and vanishing into the snowy alleyway.
Dominic casually brushed a flake of snow from his sleeve. He turned, walked back down the stoop, and opened the door to the Lincoln.
He looked at me, his slate-gray eyes completely devoid of the violence he had just unleashed.
May you like
"Gather your things, Sarah," he said calmly. "You and Rosie aren't sleeping here tonight."
***
