Chapter 2 - “CALL 911”Vincent’s right-hand man moved first.
His name, I would later learn, was Anthony Bell.
He started toward Derek.
I screamed:
“No!”
Everyone stopped.
Vincent looked at me.
I forced the words through pain.
“Call 911.”
Derek laughed again.
“Jesus Christ.”
I looked directly at Vincent.
“Police. Ambulance. No one touches him.”
Anthony glanced at Vincent.
The other man did too.
There was something almost absurd about watching two men reputed to have spent most of their adult lives avoiding police wait for permission to summon them.
Vincent took out his phone.
He called.
No argument.
No disappointed expression.
Just:
“Woman assaulted. Possible broken arm. Twenty-second floor.”
Derek stared at him.
“You’re Vincent Moretti.”
Vincent ended the call.
“Yes.”
The name moved through Derek’s body like an electrical current.
I saw recognition become calculation.
Then fear.
Derek looked at me.
“You know him?”
I said nothing.
Vincent answered:
“She called me.”
“That doesn’t answer me.”
“No.”
Derek took one step toward the hallway.
Anthony shifted into his path without touching him.
Vincent said:
“You can wait for police.”
Derek pointed.
“You can’t hold me here.”
Vincent glanced toward the broken doorway.
“I haven’t touched you.”
That was true.
Derek looked at Anthony.
Then at the second man.
Neither had touched him either.
Physical coercion can begin before contact.
That bothered me.
I said:
“Let him leave if he wants.”
Vincent looked at me.
“Lena.”
“If he walks out, let him.”
I did not want Derek’s defense to become:
I was kidnapped by mobsters.
Vincent stepped aside.
So did Anthony.
Derek stared at the open hall.
He could leave.
Instead he stayed.
Maybe running from a luxury building with security cameras after smashing a bathroom door and injuring his wife suddenly looked worse than waiting.
Good.
The elevator arrived four minutes later.
Two NYPD officers.
Then EMTs.
Vincent and his men raised their hands where they could be seen.
No one performed.
No one threatened.
The first officer took one look at the bathroom.
Then at me.
“Ma’am, can you tell me who injured you?”
I looked at Derek.
“My husband.”
The room became procedural.
Separate.
Photograph.
Statement.
Medical assessment.
Derek began talking immediately.
“She fell.”
The officer said:
“Sir, stop.”
Derek tried again.
“She’s connected to organized crime.”
That got attention.
Of course it did.
One officer looked at Vincent.
Vincent said:
“I arrived after the assault.”
The officer:
“We’ll talk separately.”
Vincent nodded.
For the first time that night, I understood something important.
Vincent’s reputation had brought him through my door.
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It was not going to decide what happened next.
Evidence would.
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