Chapter 3 - The Arrival of the Griffin
The stairs of our building were old wood, covered in thin, green industrial carpeting that had been tacked down during the Lindsay administration. They creaked when the tenants walked down them to get the morning paper, and they rattled when the delivery boys brought up the Chinese food on Friday nights.
But at 3:18 a.m., they didn't creak. They shattered.
From my position on the floor, I could hear the rapid, heavy progress of men moving up the stairwell—not the frantic running of police officers or the heavy, clumsy boots of firemen, but a rhythmic, military march that didn't stop at the landings. There was a short, sharp crack from the first-floor security door, followed by the sound of the superintendent’s bell being torn completely out of the drywall.
Marcus had moved out of the bathroom now. He was standing in the middle of our small living room, his phone still clutched in his hand, his eyes wide as he stared at the front door. The apartment was completely silent except for his breathing, which had turned into a wet, frantic wheeze.
"Lena," he called out, his voice shaking so hard he could barely clear his teeth. "Lena, get up. Get up right now and tell them it was an accident. Tell them we were just having a disagreement. You know how these things look... it’ll ruin the promotion, Lena. The senior VP slot... they won't give it to a man with an active investigation file."
I didn't answer him. I had managed to turn my torso slightly, my right hand checking the floorboards until my fingers closed around the iron shoehorn he had dropped. It was cold, heavy, and smelled of rust, but the weight of it in my palm was the first real thing I had felt since my arm broke.
The front door of our apartment did not survive the first strike.
Vincent’s men didn't use a battering ram or an iron tool; they used a hydraulic breaching device that had been modified for residential entry. The lock side of the door frame exploded inward with a sharp pop, the entire wooden slab tearing off its hinges and flying across the room until it smashed into our television console, reducing the glass screen to a pile of black salt.
Four men entered the room before the dust could hit the carpet.
They wore identical dark wool overcoats, long enough to cover the leather rigs beneath their arms, and their hands were flat against their sides. They didn't shout; they didn't point weapons; they simply moved into the corners of the room with a practiced, predatory geometry that left Marcus completely isolated in the center of the rug.
Then came Vincent.
He walked through the ruined threshold without a hat, his dark hair damp from the October sleet, his long cashmere coat open over a charcoal silk suit that looked as though it had been pressed ten minutes ago. He didn't look at Marcus. He didn't look at the broken television or the plaster dust on the floorboards. His eyes—those deep, unreadable pools of slate grey I had seen in the diner—scanned the room until they found the bathroom doorway.
"Lena," he said.
"In here," I whispered.
He moved toward the bathroom with a slow, unhurried stride, his leather shoes clicking softly against the parquet floor. Marcus tried to step into his path, his right hand coming up in a frantic, defensive gesture that was half-apology and half-assertion.
"Mr. Moretti," Marcus gasped, his face the color of wet lime. "Mr. Moretti, please... there’s been a massive misunderstanding here. My wife has an emotional condition... she’s been under a tremendous amount of stress at the diner... she fell against the radiator while I was in the kitchen..."
Vincent didn't stop walking. He didn't turn his head to look at Marcus’s face. As he passed him, his right hand came out of his coat pocket—not with a gun, but with a simple, silver-plated lighter he used for his small Italian cigars. He struck Marcus across the bridge of his nose with the heavy metal casing in a single, fluid motion that looked no more difficult than brushing a fly off a sleeve.
There was a sharp, wet crunch of bone.
Marcus went down instantly, his hands flying to his face as a dark stream of arterial blood poured through his fingers, staining the beige wool of our wedding rug. He rolled onto his side, let out a long, bubbling groan, and stayed there, his boots kicking weakly against the leg of the coffee table.
Vincent stepped over his legs and entered the bathroom.
May you like
He looked down at me for five seconds, his expression completely neutral, his gaze taking in the shattered door, the grey water on the tile, and the precise angle of my left forearm. He knelt down beside me, the scent of tobacco and cold rain coming off his coat like a physical shield, and reached out with his right hand to touch the edge of my apron.
"Eight minutes," he said softly. "You did well, Lena."
