Chapter 2 - The Echo of the Message
The heavy oak door of the green room closed with a solid, echoing thud that sounded like a tomb being sealed. The mechanical lock clicked into place. Dante remained outside in the hallway, his silhouette visible through the frosted glass panel like an immovable granite column.
Inside, the only light came from the antique floor lamp in the corner and the pale afternoon sun cutting through the high transom windows.
Vincent didn't raise his voice. He didn't slam his fist into the wall. That was the most terrifying thing about him; when Vincent Moretti was merely irritated, he shouted. When he was prepared to end a life, he became so quiet you could hear the blood rushing through your own ears.
He walked over to the mahogany bar cart, picked up a crystal decanter, and poured two fingers of scotch. He didn't drink it. He held the glass between his fingers, staring into the amber liquid before turning his dark eyes toward Michael.
"Five months ago," Vincent said, each syllable measured and precise, "Grace came to my penthouse. She wanted to see me. She was turned away at the lobby desk."
Michael swallowed hard. He kept his hands clasped in front of his suit, but his thumbs were twitching against his trousers. "Vincent, you had given strict orders after the breakup. You said you didn't want any contact. You said—"
"I asked you to monitor her safety," Vincent said, cutting him off with a whisper that had the weight of an execution order. "I told you to make sure her firm didn't go under. I told you that if she ever reached out, if she ever asked for help, you were to bring her directly to me."
"She didn't ask for help, Vincent!" Michael argued, his voice climbing an octave, cracking with panic. "She came to cause a scene! She was angry about the corporate takeover of the Bellamy project. She was threatening to go to the preservation board, to make public statements about Moretti Holdings using intimidation—"
"That is a lie," I said from the sofa.
My voice was weak, but it cut through the room like a razor. I pushed myself up onto my elbows, my hand resting protectively over my stomach.
Both men turned to look at me.
"Grace, stay down," Vincent said immediately, his tone softening for a fraction of a second before hardening again as his eyes shifted back to Michael.
"No, Vincent. You need to hear this," I said, looking directly at Michael Russo. "I didn't come to cause a scene. I went to the penthouse on April twelfth. I had just left the clinic on Michigan Avenue with an ultrasound envelope in my purse. I told the doorman I needed to speak with you privately. Five minutes later, Michael came down to the lobby."
Vincent’s gaze settled on Michael. "Did you?"
Michael’s jaw worked, but he said nothing.
"He took me into the private conference room off the lobby," I continued, the memory making my chest tighten with the same suffocating humiliation I had felt that spring morning. "He took the ultrasound envelope from my hands. He looked at it. And then he told me that you had already moved on. He told me you were finalizing an alliance with the Whitmore family, and that a bastard child with an emotional architect would ruin everything you were trying to build."
Vincent’s fingers tightened on the crystal glass. A faint, sickening crack echoed through the room as the heavy crystal fractured under the pressure of his grip.
"What else did he say, Grace?" Vincent asked, not looking away from his adviser.
"He told me that if I ever tried to contact you again, or if I ever mentioned your name on a birth certificate, Moretti Holdings wouldn't just take the Bellamy Theater. You would blacklist my firm from every municipal contract between Chicago and Boston. He gave me an envelope with fifty thousand dollars in cash and told me to get an abortion or leave the state."
A single drop of scotch leaked through the cracked crystal, falling onto the Persian rug.
"I threw the money on the floor," I whispered, the tears finally burning my eyes. "And I walked out. I thought you sent him, Vincent. I thought the man I had slept beside for three years had looked at the life we made together and called it a liability."
The crystal glass shattered.
Vincent didn't flinch as the shards bit into his palm. A thin trail of crimson blood welled from the cut, dripping steadily onto the cuff of his pristine white tuxedo shirt. He opened his hand, letting the broken glass clatter onto the hardwood floor.
"Fifty thousand dollars," Vincent whispered. He stepped toward Michael.
Michael backed up until his shoulder blades struck the bookshelves lining the rear wall. Books trembled on their perches. "Vincent, listen to me! Think about where we were five months ago! The Gambino family was pressing us on the Gary shipping corridor! The feds were subpoenaing the dock manifests! We needed the Whitmore alliance to legitimize the real estate holdings before the grand jury convened! If you had a pregnant civilian ex-girlfriend hanging around your neck, the Whitmores would have walked! The council would have voted against the casino rezoning! I did it for the family, Vincent! I did it for you!"
"You did it for yourself," Vincent said, stopping six inches from Michael’s face. "Because if I married Elena Whitmore, her father would have brought his investment firm into our port authority management. And who was slated to head the port authority operating board, Michael? Who had their name on the draft charter that Elena’s father sent over last week?"
Michael went gray. Every drop of blood vanished from his features.
"You," Vincent rasped. "You wanted a seat at the high table. You wanted to step out of the shadows, wash your hands in Whitmore money, and pretend you weren't a back-alley collector from Bridgeport."
"Vincent, we grew up together on 26th Street," Michael pleaded, his hands coming up in a desperate posture of surrender. "My father took you in after your old man was killed! We’re brothers!"
"My brother," Vincent said, his voice dropping into absolute zero, "would not have ordered the murder of my child."
Before Michael could scream, Vincent’s right hand moved like a striking viper. He caught Michael by the throat, slamming him back against the mahogany shelving with concussive force. Books cascaded down around them, thudding heavily against the floor. Vincent didn't choke him to kill; he held him pinned, his bleeding left hand reaching into his tuxedo jacket and pulling out a matte-black Sig Sauer 9mm.
He racked the slide with one hand against his thigh, the metallic click deafening in the small room.
He pressed the barrel directly between Michael’s eyes.
"Vincent, no!" I screamed, struggling to swing my legs off the sofa. "Not here! Not like this!"
Vincent didn't look back at me, but his finger remained curled against the trigger. Michael was hyperventilating, his eyes rolled back in terror, tears streaming down his cheeks.
"Give me one reason, Michael," Vincent whispered. "One reason why I shouldn't paint this theater with the inside of your head."
"The... the safe," Michael gasped out, struggling for air against Vincent’s crushing grip. "The... the records... at the... the dock office... Carmine..."
May you like
Vincent’s eyes narrowed. "Carmine? What does Carmine have to do with this?"
"He knows," Michael wheezed, his face turning an alarming shade of purple. "Carmine... Carmine helped me... set up the... the offshore account... for the payoff... he knows where she lives, Vincent! He knows about Grace!"
