Chapter 6 - The Hunt
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Vincent returned to the estate just before dawn. He was exhausted, running on adrenaline and caffeine. He bypassed his own quarters and headed straight for the east wing.
The door to Camila's suite was locked.
He knocked softly.
A moment later, the lock clicked, and the door opened a fraction of an inch. Nora peered out, her hair messy from sleep, holding a heavy brass candlestick like a club.
When she saw it was him, she lowered the makeshift weapon and opened the door wider. She let out a breath she seemed to have been holding all night.
"You're alive," she whispered.
"I told you I would be back," Vincent said, stepping inside. He looked at the candlestick. "You were going to fight off a hit squad with a candle holder?"
"It's heavy," Nora defended, setting it down on a side table. "Is she safe?"
"Camila is asleep," Nora assured him, rubbing her eyes. "What happened at the pier?"
Vincent walked into the sitting room, running a hand through his hair. "Carmine gave me forty-eight hours to prove I didn't hit Beatrice. If I don't, he attacks the estate."
Nora’s eyes widened. "How do you prove a negative?"
"I find the men he hired to do it," Vincent said. "Carmine is smart, but he's arrogant. He would have used local freelancers, someone untraceable to Chicago. He wouldn't have brought his own men to do dirty work in my city."
"So you need to find mercenaries who specialize in hit-and-runs," Nora deduced.
Vincent looked at her, impressed. "Exactly. Paulie is already working the streets. We're leaning on every bookie, fence, and low-level boss in the boroughs. Someone knows who took the contract."
The next thirty-six hours were a blur of violence and coercion. Vincent barely slept. He personally oversaw the interrogations of three different local crew leaders in the basement of a meatpacking plant in Brooklyn. The air was thick with the metallic scent of blood and fear.
By hour forty, they had a name.
A crew of freelancers operating out of an auto body shop in Queens. They were known for stealing cars, performing hits, and crushing the vehicles immediately afterward.
Vincent didn't wait for backup. He took Paulie and six men and hit the auto body shop hard.
They breached the metal roll-up doors with a stolen garbage truck. The element of surprise was absolute. The freelancers, caught off guard while playing poker in the back office, scrambled for their weapons, but Vincent’s men were faster.
Within minutes, the shop was secured. Three freelancers were dead. Two were on their knees, bleeding and terrified.
Vincent walked up to the leader, a heavily tattooed man with a shattered nose.
"Who hired you to hit Beatrice Gallow?" Vincent demanded, pressing the barrel of his gun against the man's forehead.
The man spat blood. "I don't know what you're talking about."
Vincent didn't hesitate. He shot the man in the kneecap.
The screams echoed through the hollow garage.
"I'll ask again," Vincent said, his voice devoid of emotion. "Who hired you?"
"A guy with a Chicago accent!" the man sobbed, clutching his ruined leg. "Paid us in cash! Said he wanted it to look like a hit, but not to kill her! Just put her in the hospital! He drove a silver Mercedes!"
It wasn't enough. A Chicago accent didn't prove Carmine ordered it.
Vincent searched the office frantically. He needed proof. Bank records, phone logs, anything linking the freelancers directly to the Gallow organization.
Paulie found it in a small, greasy ledger hidden behind a toolbox. A list of payments and phone numbers. One of the numbers was an unlisted Chicago area code.
Vincent dialed it on his own phone.
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It rang twice before an automated voice answered: "You have reached the private line of Carmine Gallow. Leave a message."
Vincent hung up. He had his proof. But the forty-eight hours were almost up.
