Chapter 4 - The Drawing in the Drawer
Vincent stood over the subdued intruder as Marco arrived, zip-tying the man’s wrists with violent force. The intruder was unconscious, his shoulder dislocated and blood running from a gash on his temple where Arthur’s crowbar had struck him.
“Put him in the wine cellar below the carriage house,” Vincent directed Marco without looking away from Arthur. “No calls. No doctors. If he wakes up, ensure he stays quiet.”
“Got it,” Marco grunted, hauling the deadweight through the mud.
Vincent turned his attention back to the cottage door. “Bring her inside the main house. Now.”
Arthur hesitated for half a second, his protective instincts warring with the reality that his cover was completely blown. “Rourke—”
“Do you want her alive by sunrise?” Vincent demanded, his tone cutting through the storm like a razor. “Because whoever sent him didn't send one man without a backup team within five miles. Get your daughter.”
Ten minutes later, the heavy iron-reinforced doors of the main mansion were bolted shut. The estate was locked down. Steel storm shutters descended over the lower windows with heavy hydraulic hums.
In the vast, wood-paneled library on the second floor, Lily Bennett sat curled up on a cream-colored velvet sofa. She was wearing blue flannel pajamas with cartoon rabbits, clutching a worn stuffed bear with one missing ear.
Titan was lying directly across her small feet, his massive scarred head resting on her knees.
Arthur stood by the fireplace, his soaked jacket dripping onto the antique Persian rug. He hadn't sat down. His hands were stuffed into his pockets, trembling slightly from adrenaline.
Vincent entered carrying a tray with a mug of warm milk topped with cinnamon and a tumbler of single-malt scotch. He handed the scotch to Arthur without a word, then walked over to the sofa and placed the warm milk on the low table in front of Lily.
Lily looked up at Vincent with round, serious hazel eyes. “Mr. Rourke?”
“Yes, Lily.”
“Those men made bad noises outside.”
Vincent knelt on one knee beside the sofa, his eyes leveling with hers. He had never spoken to a child for more than thirty seconds in his entire adult life. He was a man who traded in fear, leverage, and territory. Yet looking into the little girl’s unblinking, innocent face, a strange, quiet stillness settled over him.
“Nobody is making bad noises anymore,” Vincent said softly. “Titan took care of it. And my house has very thick walls.”
Lily reached out and patted Vincent’s sleeve. “You have wet clothes. You’ll get sick.”
Arthur choked back a ragged breath by the fireplace. “Lily, drink your milk and rest.”
Lily obeyed, taking the mug with both hands. As she shifted, a folded sheet of yellow construction paper fell from beneath her stuffed bear, fluttering down onto the rug near Vincent’s shoe.
Vincent picked it up. He was about to hand it back when the crude crayon lines caught his eye.
It was a drawing of a black pickup truck with tinted windows. Beside the truck stood a tall figure drawn in thick black crayon, wearing a hat. But what chilled Vincent to his core were the details: the truck’s grille had a distinct chrome bull bar, and beneath the truck, Lily had carefully written four letters in uneven purple crayon:
*S - A - L - V*
Vincent’s fingers tightened on the paper, creasing the edge.
Dominic Salvi.
The head of the North Jersey syndicate that had been encroaching on Vincent’s waterfront shipping lanes for the last six months. A ruthless, sadistic operation built on extortion, human trafficking, and murder.
Vincent looked up from the drawing, his eyes narrowing at Arthur. “She didn't draw this tonight.”
Arthur stared at the floor, his jaw working.
“Lily,” Vincent said, keeping his tone gentle. “Where did you see this truck?”
“At the gate,” Lily whispered, her nose buried in the warm mug. “Three days ago, when Daddy was trimming the hedges. The man gave me a chocolate bar through the bars. He asked me if Daddy ever talked about Uncle Julian.”
Arthur’s scotch glass hit the marble hearth with a shattering crash. Liquor and amber glass splattered across the stone.
May you like
“Arthur,” Vincent said, rising slowly to his feet, his voice dropping into the terrifying register that had made district attorneys fold and rivals flee the state. “Who the hell are you?”
***
