Chapter 3 - The Men with Fewer Rules
The sun dipped below the Grayhaven skyline, plunging the South Side into a bitter, slate-gray twilight.
Inside Apartment 4B, the air was entirely too quiet.
The front door had indeed been reinforced—the new steel frame looked jarringly out of place against the peeling, water-damaged wallpaper of the hallway. Two heavy deadbolts gleamed in the dim overhead light, installed with terrifying efficiency by men who clearly knew how to turn a home into a bunker.
Norah sat on the edge of the sagging sofa, her eyes fixed on the black burner phone resting on the coffee table.
She hadn’t touched it. Every fiber of her being screamed against accepting help from the mafia. Growing up in Chicago, you learned early that nothing was ever free—especially protection from men like Gabriel Moretti. Every favor came with a price tag, and debts to the Outfit were paid in blood, loyalty, or silence.
In the playpen, Leo had finally drifted into an exhausted sleep, his thumb tucked securely into his mouth, his chest rising and falling in steady, rhythmic breaths.
Keep the boy safe, Gabriel had said.
Easily said by a man who commanded an army of armed thugs. For Norah, keeping her son safe meant praying that the locked door and the deadbolts would hold against the tide of a world she had desperately tried to keep at arm's length.
At 9:14 PM, the illusion of safety shattered.
It didn't start with a knock.
It started with a low, heavy thud against the exterior wall of the hallway—the distinct sound of a body being slammed against drywall.
Norah froze, her breath catching in her throat. She sprang silently from the couch, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. She crept across the linoleum, careful not to let the floorboards squeak, and pressed her eye against the brass peephole.
The hallway was dim, illuminated only by a flickering fluorescent bulb overhead.
Two men stood outside her door.
They weren't Gabriel’s men. Gabriel’s enforcers wore tailored suits, moved with disciplined precision, and radiated cold authority. These two looked like street-level animals—rough-cut, wearing leather jackets stained with oil and dirt, their knuckles bruised and raw.
One of them, a thick-set brute with a jagged scar running from his ear to his collarbone, was pressing a heavy crowbar directly into the seam of the newly installed steel door.
“Try the upper lock,” the second man grunted, his voice carrying clearly through the wood. “The boss said Bennett’s old lady is still inside. If she doesn’t know where the cash is, maybe the kid can refresh her memory.”
A cold wave of pure, white-hot terror washed over Norah.
The kid.
They weren't just looking for Tommy. They were going to use Leo to get to her.
Her hands flew to her mouth to stifle a gasp. Her eyes darted around the room—desperately searching for a weapon, a heavy vase, anything. There was nothing. Just a kitchen full of dull butter knives and plastic spatulas.
The crowbar screamed against the steel frame as the brute threw his weight into it. The reinforced door held, but the wood surrounding the new frame groaned in protest, splintering inward in a shower of gray dust.
“Boss said Bennett’s old lady is still inside...”
The burner phone.
Norah sprinted across the room, her bare feet slapping against the linoleum. She snatched the black phone off the coffee table, her trembling fingers pressing speed dial one before she could talk herself out of it.
The phone didn't even ring twice.
“Speak,” Gabriel’s voice answered instantly, crisp and immediate, as if he had been sitting in the dark waiting for her call.
“They’re here,” Norah whispered into the receiver, her voice shaking so violently she could barely form the words. “Two men. D’Amico’s crew. They have a crowbar. They’re trying to break through the door.”
“Where are you?” Gabriel demanded, his tone instantly shifting from conversational to lethal command.
“Living room. Near the playpen. Please, Gabriel—they mentioned Leo—”
“Stay down, Norah. Do not move from the floor. Do not make a sound.”
The line went dead with a click.
Outside, the crowbar slammed against the door again with deafening force. A large chunk of drywall exploded inward, raining plaster across the hallway floor. The brute laughed, a harsh, grating sound.
“Almost got it, Vinnie! Give me another heave—”
Bang.
The gunshot was muffled, heavy, and terrifyingly close.
It didn't come from inside the apartment. It came from the stairwell.
The sound of the crowbar instantly stopped. In the silence that followed, a heavy thud echoed against the floorboards—the sound of a body hitting the concrete outside.
“What the hell was—?” the second man started to shout.
A second shot cracked through the air, sharp and absolute.
Then came the cold, measured voice of Dante from just outside the door.
“Drop the iron, or the next one goes through your knee.”
Silence gripped the hallway. For three agonizing seconds, nobody moved. Then, the distinct metallic clatter of a heavy tool hitting the floor echoed through the door.
“Hands behind your head. On your knees. Now,” Dante ordered.
Norah exhaled a breath she felt like she’d been holding for a century. She sank slowly to the floor beside the playpen, wrapping her arms around her knees as the adrenaline drain left her shivering violently.
Within sixty seconds, the front door swung open—repaired locks and all.
Gabriel Moretti stepped into the apartment.
He wasn’t wearing his overcoat anymore. His shirtsleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing strong, corded forearms dusted with dark hair. His expression was completely blank, his eyes scanning the room to ensure she was unharmed before he even looked toward the damaged entryway.
Dante and another enforcer walked past him, dragging two zip-tied figures backward down the hallway toward the stairs.
Gabriel walked slowly toward the living room, stopping a few feet away from where Norah sat huddled on the floor.
He looked down at her, his dark eyes softening by a fraction of a millimeter.
“Are you hurt?” he asked, his voice low.
Norah shook her head mutely, burying her face in her knees as the full weight of the terror finally broke through her defenses.
May you like
Without a word, Gabriel knelt down beside her on the ruined carpet. He didn't care about the dust or the plaster. He reached out, his large, calloused hand gently resting on her trembling shoulder.
“It’s over,” Gabriel said quietly. “They won't bother you again.”
