Chapter 6
The bright, cinematic colors of the memorial room suddenly felt oppressive, a beautiful stage set for a massacre. Vincent stepped away from the torn ventilation panel, his broad, masculine frame radiating an aura of absolute, terrifying violence. He slipped the folding knife back into his suit jacket, his movements methodical and frighteningly calm.
"Daddy?" Clara whimpered from the heavy oak doors, shrinking back against the legs of the massive bodyguards. "Who is the lady in the wall?"
Vincent stopped. He turned his head slightly toward his daughter. The lethal, freezing tension in his jaw softened for a fraction of a second.
"Guards," Vincent said. His voice was a low, vibrating rumble that commanded immediate, unquestioning obedience. "Take Clara to the east wing. Lock her in the playroom. Put four men on the door. Do not let her see what happens in this room."
"Yes, Boss," the lead bodyguard said, gently taking Clara’s hand and quickly ushering the confused four-year-old out of the room, locking the heavy doors behind them.
Once the heavy click of the deadbolt echoed through the silence, Vincent turned his full, unblinking attention to the two traitors remaining in the room.
Marco Trent was still on his knees among the shattered crystal, weeping openly, his tailored suit ruined by the spilled bourbon. Helena Caruso was pressed flat against the mahogany panels, her manicured hands clawing at the wood as if trying to merge with the wall.
"Four years," Vincent whispered. He began to walk slowly toward Marco. His polished leather shoes crunched over the broken glass with a deliberate, rhythmic sound. Every sentence sounded measured, cold, and unspeakably dangerous. "I watched you deliver her eulogy, Marco. I watched you cry at her grave."
"Boss, please, you have to let me explain!" Marco begged, holding his hands up in a pathetic gesture of surrender. "We had no choice! We did it to protect the syndicate! She was going to destroy everything you built!"
Vincent closed the distance in a single, explosive stride. He reached down with his heavily tattooed hands, grabbed Marco by the lapels of his expensive suit, and hauled the forty-five-year-old man completely off the floor. The sheer strength of the Mafia boss lifted Marco until his feet were dangling in the air.
"You buried her," Vincent growled, bringing his face inches from Marco’s terrified, sweaty face. "In my own house. You let me walk past this wall every day. For four years."
"She was talking to the feds!" Marco screamed, spit flying from his lips in his desperate panic. "She found the ledgers, Vincent! She couldn't handle the life anymore! She was going to turn over the offshore accounts to the FBI to get you arrested! She thought if you went to federal prison, she could take Clara and disappear into witness protection!"
Vincent’s eyes narrowed into dark, lethal slits. He tightened his grip on Marco’s lapels, twisting the fabric until it cut off the adviser's air supply.
"My wife. Would never betray me," Vincent stated, his voice a freezing void.
"She did!" Helena shrieked from across the room, stepping forward, her aristocratic facade entirely replaced by hysterical self-preservation. "She didn't want the mafia life, Vincent! She wanted out! But a Boss's wife cannot simply leave! If the Commission found out she was talking to the authorities, they would have slaughtered our entire family! We had to neutralize the threat!"
"So instead of telling me," Vincent said, slowly turning his head to look at his older sister, "you locked her in a tomb. And told me she burned in a car crash."
"If we told you, you would have chosen her over the family!" Helena cried out, tears of frustration and fear ruining her makeup. "You loved her too much! You would have let her destroy the syndicate! We saved your empire, Vincent! We saved your life!"
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Vincent looked back at Marco, who was turning purple as he gasped for air. With a sudden, violent surge of power, Vincent hurled Marco across the room. The adviser slammed into the heavy marble altar beneath the empty portrait space, collapsing into a groaning heap on the floor.
"You did not save my life," Vincent whispered, turning to face his sister. "You ended yours."
