Chapter 6 - THE BROKEN WATCH
I stared at the shattered pocket watch resting on the blood-stained apron.
A guttural sob ripped from my throat. I reached for it, my hands shaking so violently I could barely pick it up. The silver casing was dented, the hands permanently frozen at 2:15 AM—the exact time Judge Vance’s men had kicked down my mother’s door.
“Mom,” I wept, burying my face in the ruined apron. It smelled like her. Vanilla and cheap laundry detergent.
Vincent Salvatore stood perfectly still, watching me break down.
For the past fourteen months, he had been my boss. The distant, untouchable king of New York. But right now, staring at my tears, the cold mafia exterior cracked entirely.
He walked around the table, knelt on the floor in front of me, and took my trembling hands in his.
“Emily, look at me,” Vincent commanded softly.
I couldn't stop crying. “She’s all I have. She worked her whole life for nothing, and now she’s going to die because of me.”
“She is not going to die,” Vincent said, his voice carrying the absolute, unbreakable authority of a man who commanded hundreds. “Judge Vance thinks he’s playing a game of chess. He thinks he can use your mother to force me to hand over the only evidence that can hang him.”
“You have to give it to him,” I pleaded, terrified. “Please, Vincent. Let him have the documents. Just get my mom back.”
“If I give him the documents, he’ll kill us all anyway,” Vincent said gently, squeezing my hands. “He leaves no loose ends. That’s how he’s survived for thirty years.”
Vincent stood up and pulled his phone from his pocket.
“Vance told me to come alone,” Vincent said, his dark eyes turning lethal. “He forgot who he’s talking to.”
He dialed a number. It was picked up on the first ring.
“Call the captains,” Vincent ordered into the phone. “All of them. Empty the clubs. Empty the docks. I want every single man who takes a paycheck from the Salvatore family at Pier 41 in thirty minutes. Heavily armed.”
He hung up and looked at me.
“Vance wants a war? I’ll give him a war.”
Vincent walked to the closet and pulled out a heavy tactical vest, strapping it over his dress shirt. He grabbed a spare handgun and held it out to me.
“Stay here. Lock the door. Don’t open it for anyone but me,” he instructed.
I stared at the gun. Then I looked at Vincent.
I stood up. I didn't take the gun. Instead, I grabbed my winter coat.
“I’m going with you,” I said.
Vincent frowned. “Absolutely not. It’s going to be a slaughterhouse, Emily. You have no training. You’ll be killed.”
“She’s my mother!” I yelled, the anger finally burning through my fear. “You didn't leave Arthur behind when Vance threatened his family! Do not leave me behind when he threatens mine!”
Vincent stared at me. He saw the fierce, unyielding determination in my eyes. I was just a maid, but I was a daughter first.
He slowly lowered the gun.
“You stay behind me the entire time,” Vincent said firmly. “If I tell you to run, you run. Understand?”
“Understood.”
Forty minutes later, Vincent’s black SUV pulled up to the rusted gates of Pier 41.
The old Salvatore warehouse loomed in the darkness, a massive brick structure sitting right on the edge of the freezing East River.
But we weren't alone.
Lining the street behind us were over twenty black vehicles. Fifty of Vincent’s most loyal men stepped out into the freezing rain, holding assault rifles and shotguns. These weren't street thugs; they were highly trained enforcers.
Vincent walked to the trunk of his car, pulling out a heavy AR-15.
He turned to his men.
“Judge Vance is inside. He has a civilian hostage. Emily’s mother. The woman lives, or nobody goes home tonight. Breach every door simultaneously. Leave Vance to me.”
The men nodded silently, melting into the shadows around the warehouse.
Vincent gestured for me to follow him. We approached the heavy steel side door.
Inside, I could hear the faint echo of voices.
Vincent held up three fingers. Two. One.
He kicked the door with devastating force. The lock shattered.
We burst into the warehouse.
It was a chaotic labyrinth of wooden crates and old shipping containers. Immediately, gunfire erupted from the catwalks above.
Vincent shoved me behind a thick metal crate, returning fire with lethal precision. His men breached from the front and the roof, swarming Vance’s hired mercenaries. The warehouse turned into a deafening warzone of muzzle flashes and shattering glass.
“Stay down!” Vincent yelled over the noise, moving forward cover by cover, clearing the path.
I crawled behind him, my heart pounding so hard I thought my chest would crack.
We pushed toward the center of the warehouse, where a large, glass-walled supervisor’s office overlooked the floor.
Through the glass, I saw her.
My mother. Tied to a wooden chair, a piece of duct tape over her mouth, looking absolutely terrified.
Standing behind her was Judge Vance, holding a silver revolver to her head.
And standing a few feet away, clutching a briefcase, were Vivian and Margaret Whitmore.
Vincent kicked the office door open, leveling his rifle directly at Vance’s chest.
“It’s over, Thomas,” Vincent roared. “My men have the building. Drop the gun.”
Vance sneered, pressing the barrel harder against my mother’s temple. She whimpered.
“Give me the documents, Vincent,” Vance demanded, his aristocratic composure cracking in the face of defeat. “Or the old woman loses her head.”
Before Vincent could speak, the unthinkable happened.
Margaret Whitmore suddenly drew a small pistol from her designer purse.
But she didn't point it at Vincent.
She pointed it directly at her own mother, Vivian.
“Give him the briefcase, Mother,” Margaret screamed, her hands shaking violently.
Vivian stared at her daughter in shock. “Margaret! What are you doing? Put that down!”
“You promised me Vincent would live!” Margaret sobbed, the polished socialite completely unraveling. “You said Vance just wanted the empire! But you were going to kill him! You were going to kill the only man I ever actually loved!”
Judge Vance laughed cruelly. “You stupid girl. You were nothing but bait to get us inside the mansion.”
“Shut up!” Margaret shrieked. She looked at Vincent, tears streaming down her face. “Vincent, I didn't know they killed your mother! I swear to God I didn't! Please, just let me walk away!”
Vivian Whitmore’s face twisted into a mask of pure disgust.
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“You pathetic, weak little girl,” Vivian spat.
And without a second of hesitation, Vivian pulled a gun from her own coat pocket and fired directly at her daughter.
