Chapter 2
The absolute stillness of the memorial room shattered beneath the weight of Clara’s innocent, terrifying observation. The smoke from the extinguished candle curled upward, drifting lazily against the surface of the oil painting. Vincent Caruso did not flinch. His expression remained a mask of flawless, movie-star handsome stone, but internally, the razor-sharp instincts of a mafia boss flared to life.
Vincent slowly released Clara’s small hand. "Stand by the doors, Clara," he instructed. His voice was a low, measured hum. The controlled pauses between his words carried an unquestionable authority. "Do not move."
"Yes, Daddy," Clara whispered, hurrying her flat shoes across the marble floor until she stood by the heavy oak double doors, far away from the altar.
Vincent turned his attention back to the massive portrait. He raised his right hand, the sleeve of his tailored suit pulling back just enough to reveal the artistic, sharp tattoos wrapping around his wrist. He placed his large, flat palm directly against the center of the painted canvas.
He applied a gentle, testing pressure.
To his profound shock, the canvas did not meet the solid, unyielding resistance of a plaster wall. Instead, a tiny section of the canvas gently pushed outward against his palm, yielding to his touch before slowly sinking back in, exactly like the rhythmic expansion and contraction of a human lung.
"What is the meaning of this?" Vincent asked softly, his cold, intimidating eyes narrowing as he kept his hand pressed against the portrait.
Helena immediately stepped toward him, the heavy pearl earrings swinging against her neck. Her fair, rosy face was suddenly tight, her movements betraying a frantic, poorly concealed anxiety.
"Vincent, don't be absurd," Helena said, her American accent pitching up nervously. "It’s an old house. The central heating system runs directly behind these walls. It’s just air inside the wall. The ventilation ducts often cause the canvas to flex when the pressure changes."
Vincent did not remove his hand. He slowly turned his head, his sharp gaze sweeping across the expansive, brightly lit room.
"Air," Vincent repeated, the word tasting like a threat on his tongue.
He looked toward the towering, floor-to-ceiling windows. The heavy silk curtains hung perfectly motionless. He looked at the massive double doors where Clara stood; there was no draft sweeping across the floorboards. The room was a hermetically sealed environment, designed to protect the expensive artwork from humidity and temperature fluctuations. Nothing in the room was moving. The natural, cinematic light revealed absolute stillness.
"There are no ventilation ducts. On this specific wall. Helena," Vincent stated, his voice dropping into a lethal, quiet register. "I reviewed the architectural blueprints. When I had the security system installed. This wall backs into the old masonry of the original estate. It is supposed to be solid brick."
"You must be misremembering the blueprints, Boss," Marco Trent chimed in, stepping closer to Helena. The forty-five-year-old adviser offered a placating, professional smile, but a bead of sweat had formed near his hairline. "The contractors retrofitted this wing five years ago. There are definitely air returns behind the paneling."
Vincent finally pulled his hand away from the canvas. He turned his body fully toward the two adults standing behind him. His thick, slightly wavy hair was perfectly styled, not a strand out of place, contrasting the sudden, chaotic tension in the room.
"You both seem incredibly eager," Vincent said slowly, taking a single, measured step toward his older sister and his trusted adviser. "To explain away. A physical impossibility."
"We are simply trying to prevent you from upsetting yourself on such a tragic anniversary," Helena insisted, clutching her hands together in front of her elegant formal dress. "Grief plays terrible tricks on the mind, Vincent. You are seeing ghosts where there is only old plumbing and drafts."
"I do not believe in ghosts. Helena," Vincent whispered, his eyes locking onto hers with terrifying intensity. "I believe in men. And the lies they tell."
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"Vincent, please," Marco said, holding his hands up defensively. "No one is lying to you. We are your family."
Vincent did not answer. He slowly turned back to the portrait, stepping so close that his chest was nearly touching the painted frame. He leaned his head forward, pressing his ear an inch away from the surface of the canvas, listening to the supposed ghosts living inside his walls.
