Chapter 6 - Blood on the Concrete
The hallway temperature seemed to drop ten degrees the instant Adrian moved into the light of the flickering ceiling bulb.
Yuri and his companion stopped dead in their tracks, the baseball bat halting mid-swing against the wall. They turned, expecting a terrified neighbor or a desperate debtor, only to find themselves staring into the face of a man whose reputation was whispered about in hushed tones across every precinct and prison yard in Illinois.
"Moretti?" Yuri stammered, color draining instantly from his ruddy face. "What the hell are you—this is Bratva territory. You're out of your depth, old man—"
Adrian did not speak. He moved with a terrifying, predator-like speed that defied his tailored suit and middle age.
Before Yuri could raise the baseball bat, Adrian’s hand lashed out, catching the brute by the throat with a grip like a hydraulic press. With a sickening crunch of cartilage, Adrian slammed Yuri’s head backward into the concrete wall. The heavy man went limp instantly, sliding down the bricks in a heap of broken limbs and stained leather.
The second thug panicked, dropping his cigarette and reaching frantically inside his jacket for a snub-nosed revolver.
"You're dead—!" the man snarled, his fingers brushing the grip.
A silver flash cut through the dim light. Adrian’s custom-balanced stiletto knife, drawn from his inner breast pocket with blinding precision, buried itself up to the hilt in the thug’s right shoulder. The man shrieked, dropping to his knees as blood bloomed across his shirt like a dark flower.
Adrian stepped over Yuri’s twitching body, grabbed the wounded thug by the collar of his jacket, and lifted him off the floor with one hand, his face inches from the terrified criminal's nose.
"Listen to me very carefully," Adrian whispered, his voice a lethal hiss that carried more terror than a chorus of screams. "You tell Viktor Petrov that if his men ever set foot in Cicero again—if they even look at this building, if they breathe the same air as this child—I will not just take his docks. I will take his skin. Now get out of my sight before I change my mind and leave you both for the rats."
The thug scrambled backward on hands and knees, dragging his bleeding shoulder, hoisted his unconscious partner by the collar, and fled down the stairwell like a whipped dog, tumbling over themselves in their terror.
Adrian stood alone in the hallway for a long moment, his chest heaving, his knuckles bruised and streaked with blood. He closed his eyes, took a deep, shuddering breath, and turned slowly toward the open apartment door.
Emma was standing in the center of the kitchen, trembling like a captured bird, clutching her rag doll so tightly her knuckles were white. She stared up at him not with fear, but with an astonishing, heartbreaking comprehension.
"Mr. Moretti?" she whispered, her voice barely audible over the clanking radiator. "Are you... are you a ghost too?"
May you like
Adrian dropped to his knees. The expensive wool of his suit trousers soaked into the dirty, water-stained linoleum, but he didn't care. For the first time in three years, the ice around his heart cracked, splintering wide open.
"No, Emma," Adrian said, his voice thick with emotion as he reached out calloused, blood-streaked hands and gently pulled the tiny child into his arms. "I'm not a ghost anymore. I'm right here."
