Chapter 7
"What are you going to do to us?" Rosalind asked, her voice dropping into a terrified, shaky whisper. The older woman finally grasped the absolute totality of their situation. The bright, cinematic lighting of the estate seemed to highlight the profound failure of their ambitions.
Viviana slowly walked back toward the worktable, her leather shoes clicking with a rhythmic, terrifying finality. She looked down at the metal paint tray where her diamond wedding ring still sat submerged in the dark, thick pigment.
"If I kill you," Viviana began, her voice a low, measured hum, "the Morettis will use your deaths as a pretext. They will claim I am unstable, that I am purging my own family, and they will use it to rally the commission against me."
Damon let out a massive, shuddering breath of relief. "Thank you. Oh God, Viviana, thank you. You won't regret this. We'll leave the state today. You'll never see us again."
"I did not say you were leaving the state, Damon," Viviana interrupted softly.
The relief vanished from Damon's face just as quickly as it had appeared. "But... you just said you couldn't kill us."
"I said I won't kill you because it is politically inconvenient," Viviana clarified, turning her cold, unyielding gaze back to her husband. "But I also said you were going to disappear. And you will."
Viviana gestured to the two towering bodyguards. "Take them to the subterranean holding facility. The old vault beneath the wine cellar."
"No!" Rosalind screamed, thrashing wildly against the bodyguard holding her. "You can't lock us in a basement! I am an old woman! I need my medication! I have social engagements!"
"Your social calendar has been permanently cleared, Rosalind," Viviana stated, completely devoid of empathy. "You will be provided with adequate food and your basic medical necessities. But you will never see the sun again. You will never speak to another living soul outside of my trusted guards. You are ghosts."
"Viviana, please! He's my son!" Damon roared, struggling frantically as the bodyguard began to drag him toward the door. The paint and blood smeared across the pristine white doorframe as he fought. "You can't take him from me! I have rights!"
"You surrendered your rights the moment you put a target on his back," Viviana said, her voice echoing with lethal authority. "Get them out of my sight."
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The bodyguards hauled the screaming, thrashing mother and son out of the portrait studio. Their hysterical cries echoed down the long, marble corridors of the estate, growing fainter and fainter until the heavy steel doors of the lower levels finally slammed shut, cutting off the noise entirely.
Viviana stood alone in the brightly lit studio. The silence that rushed in was absolute. She looked at the ruined canvas on the easel, the smeared paint over her own painted face. She reached into her pocket, pulled out a pristine white silk handkerchief, and slowly wiped a stray drop of paint from her tailored jacket. The purge was complete. But the true war was only just beginning.
