Chapter 10
Dawn broke over the Hudson River in pale, bruised shades of violet and gold, filtering through the shattered windows of the Grand Belvedere.
The civilian guests had long been evacuated through the subterranean tunnels, sworn to secrecy under penalty of death. The wreckage of the banquet was being cleared by silent, efficient crews in dark jumpsuits. Marco Valenti had been loaded into an armored van bound for the New Jersey state line, stripped of his northern supply routes and forced to sign an unconditional non-aggression pact guaranteed by the national Commission.
In the center of the ruined ballroom, seated on a solitary velvet chair surrounded by shattered glass and spilled wine, was Margaret Moretti.
Her sapphire dress was torn at the shoulder, her pearls lay scattered across the floor like broken teeth, and her fair skin was stained with dried mascara and soot. She had been brought down from the third-floor suite after the security team discovered she had provided the digital access codes that cut the ballroom’s main power grid.
Vincent stood five paces away, freshly changed into a crisp white dress shirt and dark trousers. His sleeves were rolled up to his forearms, the intricate, sharp tattoos catching the first rays of morning light. Beside him stood Laura, holding three-year-old Emma, who was wrapped in a warm cashmere blanket, fast asleep against her mother’s shoulder. David stood close, a clean white bandage taped across his bruised jaw, his eyes hardened with the newfound maturity of a boy who had defended his home.
Margaret looked up at her brother, her eyes hollow, her spirit entirely broken.
"Vincent..." she whispered, her voice cracked and reedy. "You can't do this. We shared a mother. We share the same blood."
Vincent walked forward slowly, stopping directly in front of her. He looked down at her with cold, pitiless grey eyes.
"Blood means nothing if it’s poison, Margaret," Vincent said softly, his voice measured and deadly. "You sold out this family to Chicago. You tried to trade this little girl to the men who murdered her parents. You are no sister of mine."
"Where... where are you sending me?" Margaret sobbed, burying her face in her trembling hands.
"To a private facility in northern Maine," Vincent answered without hesitation. "Surrounded by ten-foot fences and armed guards. You will have a room, three meals a day, and no contact with the outside world. You will live there until your heart stops beating. And every time you eat, you will remember what you said to my daughter."
Santino stepped forward, gripping Margaret by the elbows and hauling her to her feet. She didn't fight back this time; she let herself be led away like a hollow ghost, her slippers shuffling over the broken porcelain of the high table.
Laura walked over to Vincent, resting her free hand gently against his arm. "Is it over, Dad?"
Vincent looked at Laura, then reached out and softly touched Emma’s sleeping cheek. The little girl stirred slightly, sighing contentedly in her sleep, completely safe in the fortress her family had built around her.
"For today, it’s over," Vincent murmured.
Suddenly, the heavy satellite phone in Vincent’s pocket vibrated with a sharp, low hum.
Vincent pulled out the encrypted device. On the screen was an unlisted international number from Palermo, Sicily. He pressed the receiver to his ear.
"Speak," Vincent commanded softly.
A raspy, ancient voice spoke through the line, speaking in slow, heavily accented English:
"Vincent Moretti. You defeated Chicago... but Marco was only the collector. The Swiss vault containing the child's true inheritance was opened an hour ago in Zurich. Someone else held the master key. And they are already on a private flight to New York."
The line went dead.
Vincent slowly lowered the phone, his grey eyes turning toward the rising sun over the Atlantic horizon. The war for Emma's soul hadn't ended in the ballroom—it had only just expanded across the ocean.
Laura noticed the shift in his posture. "Vincent? Who was that?"
May you like
Vincent slid the phone back into his pocket, his jaw locking into granite as he looked at his daughter and granddaughter.
"Get David and Emma to the compound in the Hamptons," Vincent said, his voice flat, steady, and terrifyingly calm. "Tell the garrison to lock the armory. Our real guests have just boarded their plane."
