Chapter 2 - Into the Shadows of Elm Street
Maria Benedetto hurried over, her apron rustling, her eyes wide with a mixture of terror and fierce maternal instinct. She didn't look at Vincent's jacket where his firearm was concealed; she looked only at the bleeding, shivering child.
"Take her to the back," Vincent commanded softly, his voice a low baritone that brooked no argument. "Clean her feet. Feed her. If anyone comes looking for a little girl, you tell them nobody is here, and then you tell your husband to get his shotgun from under the counter. Understood?"
"Yes, Mr. Torino," Maria whispered, gently scooping Sophie into her arms. Sophie cried out, reaching for Vincent, her tiny fingers slipping from his coat.
"Sophie," Vincent said, holding her gaze with absolute intensity. "I am going to find your mother. I give you my word."
The girl stopped struggling, nodding once with a maturity that broke something small and long-forgotten inside Vincent’s chest. As Maria carried her away, Vincent stepped out of the warm, garlic-and-wine-scented air of Romano’s and into the biting autumn chill.
His black sedan pulled up to the curb exactly four minutes later. Tony Ricci was driving, his rugged face set in stone. In the back sat Marco and Danny, two of Vincent's most trusted soldiers, along with Dr. Aris, a disgraced former trauma surgeon who now worked exclusively on the Torino payroll.
Vincent climbed into the passenger seat. "Elm Street. Number 442. Fast."
Tony slammed on the gas. "What do we know, Boss?"
"Elena Morrison. She works at a community legal clinic. Someone didn't want her making this dinner. They came with bats and blades." Vincent checked the magazine of his Kimber 1911 pistol, the metallic clack echoing in the tense silence of the car. "We treat this as an active ambush. If the attackers are still there, they die. If they're gone, we secure the perimeter and let Aris work."
As the sedan tore through the neon-lit grid of the city, Vincent felt an unfamiliar sensation tightening in his throat. It wasn't fear—he hadn't felt fear since he was a teenager hiding in a bakery during the West Side turf wars. It was fury. Pure, cold, unadulterated fury. Elena Morrison was supposed to be under his protection the moment she agreed to a date orchestrated by his sister. Whoever touched her had indirectly spat in the face of the Torino family.
They reached Elm Street, a modest, tree-lined neighborhood currently shrouded in pitch darkness. Number 442 was a two-story Victorian house with a wrap-around porch. The front door was wide open, casting a sinister wedge of yellow light onto the wooden steps.
"Lights off," Vincent ordered.
The sedan rolled to a silent halt. Vincent, Tony, Marco, and Danny moved as a single, lethal unit, drawing their weapons and fanning out across the lawn. The air smelled of damp leaves and copper—the distinct, unmistakable scent of fresh blood.
Vincent breached the threshold first, his weapon raised. The living room was a disaster zone. A beautiful blue ceramic vase lay shattered on the hardwood floor. A coat rack was overturned. And there, near the hallway leading to the kitchen, lay a woman.
She wore a royal blue silk dress, now stained a horrific, deep crimson.
"Clear the house!" Vincent barked. Marco and Danny bounded up the stairs, their boots thudding softly, while Tony checked the perimeter.
Vincent dropped to his knees beside Elena. He pressed two fingers to her neck. Her pulse was a thready, desperate flutter. She was breathing, but each breath sounded like tearing paper. Her face was bruised, and a deep laceration ran across her forearm where she had clearly tried to defend herself.
"Aris! Get in here now!" Vincent yelled.
The doctor rushed in, throwing open his heavy black medical case. "Stab wound to the upper abdomen, significant internal bleeding. Blunt force trauma to the ribs. Vincent, she needs a hospital, or she dies in twenty minutes."
"You are the hospital tonight, Aris. If we take her to a public ER, the police will lock her down, and whoever did this will finish the job. Save her. Here. Now."
Elena’s eyelids fluttered open. Her vision was glassy, unfocused. She looked at Vincent’s tailored suit, then at the gun in his hand. With a strength that defied her condition, she grabbed his wrist. Her grip was slick with her own blood.
"Sophie..." she gasped, a wet, choked sound. "They... they took... no... Sophie ran..."
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"Sophie is safe," Vincent said, leaning close, his voice dropping its hard edge. "She found me at the restaurant. She told me to come. I have her, Elena. You fight for her. Do you hear me? Fight."
A single tear cut a clean line through the dust and blood on Elena's cheek. Then, her eyes rolled back, and she went completely limp.
