Chapter 6 - The Return to 5th StreetThe cold rain beat a steady, heavy cadence against the bulletproof glass of Vincent’s dark armored Maybach as it glided through the narrow, trash-strewn alleys of 5th Street at 11:30 AM.
Parked outside an abandoned commercial warehouse sat three dark sedans belonging to the Ashford crime syndicate—a ruthless loan-sharking crew that operated in the city's underbelly.
Inside the back seat, Vincent sat wearing a dark wool coat, reviewing tactical updates on an encrypted tablet. Beside him sat me, wearing an immaculate cashmere sweater, holding a silver briefcase containing fifty thousand dollars in crisp cash.
Sitting on the jump seat across from us, trembling violently, his face pale as paper, was my brother, Tyler.
Tyler kept looking from my expensive sweater to the six broad-shouldered men in dark suits following our Maybach in secondary SUVs.
"Nora..." Tyler whimpered softly, his voice shaking with pure, unadulterated awe. "How... how are you living like this? They said you were just his maid..."
I looked at my brother—the man who had watched my father barter my life away for fifty dollars without lifting a finger to protect me.
"I am not his maid, Tyler," I spoke deadpan, my voice holding a cold, royal authority that made him flinch. "I am Donna Nora Moretti. And today... you learn what happens when you treat family like property."
The Maybach stopped outside the warehouse doors.
Vincent stepped out first, opening my door himself, holding out his broad, warm hand to help me down into the rain.
We walked into the dark, damp warehouse—a soaring concrete space smelling of rust, wet wood, and cheap tobacco.
Bound to a wooden chair in the center of the room, bruised, bloody, and weeping hysterically, was my father, Frank Bellamy.
Standing over him, holding an iron pipe, was Arthur Ashford—a greasy, fifty-year-old loan shark in a leather jacket.
"Well, well," Ashford sneered, turning around as our boots clicked against the concrete floor. "Look who brought the Moretti family’s leftovers. Where's my fifty thousand, Frank?"
My father raised his bloodshot eyes, seeing me walk down the aisle flanked by Vincent Moretti and twelve armed operators.
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"Nora...!" my father wept pathetically, his voice cracking into sharp, desperate fragments. "Nora, baby! Tell your husband to give him the money! Save your father!"
Vincent walked past my father without looking at him, stopping two feet from Arthur Ashford.
