Chapter 5
With a violent, tearing screech of bending metal, Vincent pried the painted ventilation panel away from the wall. The heavy steel grate popped free, clattering loudly against the marble floor.
Vincent stepped back, his chest rising and falling in slow, controlled breaths.
The moment the panel was removed, a rush of warm, incredibly stale air poured out from the dark cavity, carrying the faint, unmistakable scent of human habitation—sweat, damp cotton, and fear.
Vincent stared into the opening. Beyond the false wall lay a narrow, claustrophobic hidden passage, carved directly into the thick masonry of the old estate. The passage was barely wide enough for a grown man to walk through sideways, illuminated only by a single, flickering, low-wattage incandescent light bulb hanging from the low ceiling.
Vincent slowly leaned forward, peering down the length of the grim, hidden corridor.
At the very end of the hallway, huddled in a small, hollowed-out alcove, sat a figure.
It was a beautiful woman. Her skin was deathly pale, lacking the fair, rosy flush of the people standing in the sunlit room behind him. She was incredibly thin, wearing a simple, faded cotton dress that hung loosely on her frail frame. Her dark hair was tangled and wild, shielding her face as she cowered against the brick wall, her arms wrapped tightly around her knees in a defensive posture.
Vincent’s breath caught in his throat. His cold, intimidating eyes widened in absolute, paralyzing shock.
The woman slowly raised her head, blinking against the sudden influx of bright, natural light streaming in from the memorial room. As she lifted her hand to shield her eyes, the cinematic lighting caught the glint of metal on her wrist.
She was wearing a delicate, custom-made diamond and platinum bracelet. It was the exact same, one-of-a-kind wedding bracelet that Vincent had commissioned for his wife—the bracelet that was supposedly buried with her closed casket four years ago.
The woman’s hollow eyes finally focused on the towering, handsome man standing in the opening.
"Vincent?" she croaked. Her voice was a fragile, broken whisper, devastated by years of disuse and despair, but the American accent and the gentle cadence were unmistakably hers.
Vincent became completely motionless.
The universe seemed to shatter and reform around him in a fraction of a second. The man who ordered executions without blinking, the Mafia boss who ruled an empire with cold, measured precision, was reduced to a statue of sheer, incomprehensible disbelief. The woman he had mourned, the woman whose portrait he had prayed to every single day for four years, was sitting in a dusty hole behind his own walls.
"Evelyn," Vincent breathed, the name tearing out of his throat like a physical wound.
"Close it!" Marco screamed from the floor, scrambling forward on his hands and knees, completely losing his mind to panic. "Boss, step away from the wall! It’s a trick! It’s a setup!"
Vincent did not move. He stared at his wife, watching as tears began to spill down her pale cheeks, tracking through the dust on her face. She reached a trembling, painfully thin hand out toward him, her fingers grasping desperately at the empty air.
"You didn't know," Evelyn sobbed, her voice breaking entirely. "They told me you ordered it. They told me you put me in here."
The words struck Vincent with the force of a freight train. The shock evaporating from his system was instantly replaced by a rage so profound, so apocalyptic, it felt as though the air in the room was catching fire.
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He slowly turned his head away from the hidden passage. The loose strands of wavy hair falling over his forehead framed a face that had transformed from a handsome movie star into a literal demon of vengeance. His cold, sharp eyes locked onto Helena and Marco.
No dialogue was necessary. The look in his eyes promised that the people in this room were going to suffer in ways the devil himself hadn't yet invented.
