Chapter 7 - The Iron Wall of Milwaukee
The heavy mahogany doors of Vance & Associates law firm rattled violently under a series of aggressive, synchronized strikes.
The receptionist looked up from her desk in sheer terror as three armed bodyguards wearing tailored suits shoved past the security checkpoint.
Right behind them strode Vincent Moretti, his face carved from dark, unyielding granite, his dark eyes burning with murderous intent.
Where is she? Vincent’s voice reverberated through the quiet lobby like rolling thunder.
Don't make me tear this entire building down to the foundation to find my wife.
Before the terrified receptionist could press the emergency alarm, the frosted glass conference room door swung open smoothly.
Marcus Vance stepped out into the hallway, adjusting his gold-rimmed glasses with absolute serenity.
You’re trespassing, Mr. Moretti, Marcus said, his voice entirely devoid of fear.
And if you take one more step forward, my security detail will have you arrested by federal marshals before you even reach the elevator bank.
Vincent lunged forward, grabbing Marcus by the lapels of his bespoke Italian suit and slamming him against the wood-paneled wall.
You think a piece of paper and a rented lawyer can keep me away from my wife? Vincent snarled, spittle flying from his lips.
Where is Claire?
If you’ve hidden her in this city, I swear I’ll burn your entire firm to ash.
Marcus did not flinch, maintaining steady eye contact with the most dangerous syndicate boss in the Midwest.
You can threaten me all you want, Vincent, but violence isn't going to fix the mess you created.
She doesn't want to see you, she doesn't want your money, and she certainly doesn't want to hear your pathetic excuses.
A heavy rustle of clothing echoed behind Vincent as two federal marshals stepped out of the private corridor with their hands resting on their sidearms.
Let him go, Moretti, the senior marshal commanded, his voice cold and authoritative.
You are currently violating a federal restraining order and a state injunction.
One more aggressive move and you’ll be spending the night in a federal holding cell instead of looking for your wife.
Vincent’s jaw worked furiously as his fingers slowly loosened their grip on Marcus’s lapel.
He smoothed down Marcus’s jacket with deliberate, icy condescension before turning his dark gaze toward the federal marshals.
Tell my wife that running won't change a damn thing, Vincent whispered dangerously.
Blood is thicker than legal ink, and she belongs with me.
With that, Vincent spun on his heel, his bodyguards forming an impenetrable wall around him as they stormed back toward the private elevators.
May you like
Marcus adjusted his collar, took a deep breath, and walked back into his office to call Claire.
The war had officially begun, and neither side was willing to surrender an inch of ground.
