Chapter 4 - The Father's Fury
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The name echoed in the entry hall like a gunshot.
Everyone in New York knew who Vincent Moretti was, even if his face almost never appeared in newspapers or television broadcasts. He was a phantom who owned construction firms, shipping docks, union halls, and half the private real estate in the city. Politicians mentioned him in hushed tones behind closed doors.
Ethan turned his head toward me, his eyes wide with sheer horror.
“No,” he stammered, shaking his head rapidly. “No, you said your father died when you were a kid. You lied to me!”
“I said my mother raised me alone,” I corrected, leaning my weight against the wall as another agonizing contraction hit me. “I never said he was dead.”
The heavy deadbolt snapped with a violent metallic click.
The front door swung inward. Four massive men in dark tailored coats entered first, moving swiftly to secure the perimeter of the room. They didn't draw weapons, nor did they raise their voices. Their presence alone completely erased Ethan’s authority.
Then, Vincent Moretti walked into my home.
He wore a charcoal overcoat over a dark suit, silver dusting the hair at his temples. He was sixty years old, but he moved with the predator grace of a man half his age.
He didn't glance at Ethan. He didn't acknowledge Vanessa shivering by the kitchen counter. His dark eyes swept the room until they locked onto me.
He saw the shattered bathroom door. He saw my left arm dangling unnaturally at my side. And then he saw the dark crimson blood pooling around the hem of my dress.
The legendary ice in Vincent Moretti’s face shattered completely.
“Lena,” he breathed out, crossing the room in three long strides.
Before my knees could buckle, his large hands caught me. One hand cupped the back of my head, while the other held my waist, supporting my weight completely.
“Dad...” I sobbed, collapsing into his chest.
“Doctor!” Vincent roared over his shoulder without looking away from my face.
One of his men was already on his phone, barking urgent coordinates to an private medical transport unit.
Vincent finally turned his gaze toward Ethan. The absolute, unadulterated lethal fury in his eyes caused Ethan to take three fast steps backward until his spine hit the glass balcony door.
“Did you do this to my daughter?” Vincent asked. His voice was terrifyingly soft.
“Mr. Moretti, please!” Ethan stammered, raising both hands in the air. “There’s been a massive misunderstanding! She fell in the bathroom! She’s emotional!”
“She didn't fall,” I gasped through my tears, gripping Vincent’s lapels. “Vanessa slapped me... and Ethan twisted my arm until it broke.”
Vincent’s jaw flexed once. He looked at Vanessa, who instantly dropped her gaze to the floor, her body trembling violently.
“The police are on their way,” one of Vincent’s men announced from the foyer.
May you like
Ethan looked stunned. “You... you called the police?”
Vincent looked at my husband as if he were a cockroach beneath his shoe. “My daughter called me for help. Do you think I’m going to handle this like an amateur and let you hide behind a legal technicality later? You will explain every single mark on her body to a prosecutor.”
