Chapter 4 - THE MAN SHE HAD RUN FROM
Amelia’s hand was inside her coat pocket.
Her fingers closed around the emergency alarm Detective Russo had given her.
Raymond noticed.
“Don't.”
Same voice.
Same quiet warning.
For six years that word had been enough.
This time Amelia pressed the button.
Nothing happened.
Raymond smiled.
“I removed the batteries.”
Fear hit her like ice.
He had been inside long enough to search everything.
“Where’s the phone?”
Amelia backed toward the door.
“Police have it.”
His expression changed.
Only slightly.
But she saw it.
“You always were a terrible liar.”
“Try me.”
“Mia.”
“Don't call me that.”
Raymond tilted his head.
“You used to like it.”
“I used to think bruises were apologies.”
His face hardened.
There.
The mask slipping.
“You've been talking to people who don't understand us.”
“There is no us.”
“I spent three years looking for you.”
“That doesn't make this romantic.”
He stepped closer.
She did not retreat.
“That phone has things you misunderstood.”
“I didn't listen until yesterday.”
Raymond went pale.
Good.
For the first time Amelia understood something.
He was afraid.
Not angry.
Afraid.
“That was private.”
“You hit me.”
“I was sick then.”
“You put me in the hospital.”
“I got help.”
“You broke my rib.”
“Amelia—”
“My name is Amelia.”
Raymond’s jaw tightened.
“You think Castellano cares about you?”
“This isn't about Vincent.”
“It will be.”
He smiled.
“Men like him don't rescue women for free.”
“Funny. Men like you always think everything has a price.”
Raymond took another step.
Amelia grabbed the lamp from the side table.
He laughed.
“What are you going to do?”
“I don't know.”
She held it between them.
“But whatever happens next isn't going to look like the old days.”
A knock sounded.
Raymond froze.
“Amelia?”
Angela.
Raymond moved instantly.
He grabbed Amelia’s arm.
Her body remembered before her mind did.
Fear.
Submission.
Stillness.
Then she remembered the diner.
My place is right here.
Amelia slammed the lamp into Raymond's shoulder.
He cursed.
She screamed.
“ANGELA, RUN!”
Raymond reached for her again.
The apartment door burst open.
Not Vincent.
Detective Russo.
Two officers behind her.
Raymond ran toward the fire escape.
An officer tackled him before he reached the window.
Raymond fought.
Hard.
But handcuffs closed around his wrists.
He looked at Amelia from the floor.
“You did this.”
She stared at him.
For years that sentence would have crushed her.
She crouched.
“No.”
Raymond's eyes narrowed.
“You did.”
Police led him away.
Angela stood shaking in the hallway.
“I'm going to murder him.”
Russo pointed.
“Please don't say that in front of a detective.”
Angela burst into tears and hugged Amelia.
Raymond was charged with burglary, witness intimidation and violating several state laws connected to his entry into the apartment.
But by morning he was already bargaining.
His attorney claimed he had used an old key.
Claimed he came to speak peacefully.
Claimed Amelia attacked him first.
Then came the worst part.
Raymond offered federal investigators information about Moretti operations.
In exchange, he wanted protection.
“What kind?” Amelia asked.
Russo hesitated.
“Potentially reduced charges.”
Amelia laughed bitterly.
“So now he becomes useful and everything disappears?”
“No.”
“That's how it sounds.”
“The assault case is separate.”
“You mean the old assaults nobody prosecuted?”
Russo sat across from her.
“Report them.”
Amelia looked away.
“It's not that simple.”
“I know.”
“No, you don't.”
Russo waited.
Amelia whispered:
“I stayed.”
Russo said nothing.
“I stayed after the first time.”
Her voice cracked.
“After the second.”
Tears filled her eyes.
“I lied to my sister. I lied to doctors. I defended him.”
Russo leaned forward.
“That doesn't make what he did legal.”
“But people will ask.”
“Yes.”
“Why didn't you leave?”
“Some will.”
“What am I supposed to say?”
Russo considered.
“The truth.”
“Which is?”
“You were afraid.”
Amelia looked at her.
“That can be enough.”
That afternoon, Amelia filed her first formal report against Raymond Fletcher.
Then another.
And another.
She described everything.
The broken rib.
The eyebrow scar.
The night he locked her in a bathroom.
The money he took.
The threats.
The final night she escaped.
It took four hours.
When she finished, she walked outside the precinct.
Vincent waited across the street.
Alone.
He did not approach.
Amelia crossed to him.
“You knew I was here?”
“Angela told Tony.”
“And Tony told you.”
“Yes.”
“Why didn't you come inside?”
“You didn't ask.”
She stared.
Something had changed.
“You're learning.”
“Painfully.”
For a moment neither spoke.
Then Vincent asked:
“Want coffee?”
“That's your move?”
“I own a diner.”
“You own half Brooklyn.”
“Diner coffee is better.”
“That's objectively false.”
He almost smiled.
They walked.
At the corner, Amelia stopped.
“What happens if Moretti decides the recordings are my fault?”
Vincent’s expression darkened.
“I don't know.”
“Wrong answer.”
He looked surprised.
“I need the real answer.”
He considered.
“Then the real answer is they may try to frighten you.”
“Or hurt me.”
“Yes.”
“What will you do?”
Vincent wanted to say:
Anything necessary.
Instead, he remembered her accusation.
Territory.
“I'll ask you what you want me to do.”
Amelia studied him.
Then nodded.
“That's better.”
Neither knew a man sitting inside a parked delivery van across the street was photographing them.
The photograph reached Marco Moretti fifteen minutes later.
Marco looked at Amelia.
Then Vincent.
Then handed the photograph to the man beside him.
“You recognize her?”
The man smiled.
Derek Lawson.
“Yes.”
Marco slid a thick envelope across the table.
“This time, don't touch the woman.”
Derek frowned.
“Then what am I doing?”
Marco pointed at Vincent.
May you like
“Make him choose.”
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