Chapter 4 - The Serpent in the HouseWhen I walked back into the main house, the grandfather clock in the grand foyer struck 9:00 AM.
Marcus was already there.
He stood by the massive marble fireplace in the study, pouring himself a glass of single-malt scotch from my private decanter. He wore a charcoal bespoke suit, his silver-flecked hair combed back with military precision, looking every bit the loyal, dependable second-in-command.
When he heard the heavy double doors close behind me, he turned, raising his glass with a warm, easy smile.
“Morning, Lorenzo,” Marcus said smoothly. “You’re up early. Security reports you were wandering the grounds before dawn. Everything alright? Still losing sleep over the anniversary?”
I didn't answer right away. I walked slowly across the Persian rug, unbuttoning my wool coat, keeping my hands empty and my expression completely blank.
“You know how it is, Marcus,” I said, my voice dangerously even. “Ghosts don't sleep. So neither do I.”
Marcus chuckled, taking a sip of his scotch. “You need to let the past go, cousin. Three years is a long time to punish yourself for a tragic accident. The turnpike claims a dozen cars every winter. It was just bad luck that Isabella and little Arya happened to be on it when the guardrail gave out.”
“Was it bad luck?” I asked, stopping five feet away from him.
Marcus paused, the glass halfway to his mouth. A microscopic flash of tension crossed his eyes before his professional mask slid back into place. “What do you mean?”
“I mean,” I said, reaching into my coat pocket and pulling out the small microcassette recorder, “that I found some very interesting things in the old carriage house this morning.”
The color drained from Marcus’s face so fast it looked as though someone had struck him across the chest. He didn't look at my face; his eyes dropped straight to the plastic device in my hand.
“Where did you get that?” Marcus whispered, his smooth veneer cracking instantly, revealing the cold, desperate predator beneath.
“A little girl with a tin cup showed me where to look,” I replied softly. “And a dead man named Leo finished the story for you.”
Marcus’s hand twitched toward his left shoulder, instinctively reaching for the concealed holster beneath his tailored jacket.
He was fast. But I had spent twenty years in the underworld surviving men just like him.
Before his fingers could wrap around the grip of his pistol, I lunged forward, slamming my palm against his chest and driving him backward into the heavy mahogany desk. The crystal decanter shattered on the floor, amber liquid splashing across the Persian rug like spilled blood.
Marcus gasped for air, his hands shooting up to grab my wrists. “Lorenzo—wait! Let me explain—!”
“Explain what, Marcus?” I snarled, my fingers tightening around his collar, hauling him up until his feet barely touched the floor. “Explain how you traded my family’s lives for a larger cut of the docks? Explain how you murdered innocent men and blamed it on bad brakes?”
“I did it for the syndicate!” Marcus choked out, spittle flying from his lips, his eyes wild with terror. “You were going soft! You wanted to legitimize the operations, cut ties with New York, turn us into a clean corporate shipping firm! You were destroying everything our fathers built! I had to take control!”
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“You didn't take control,” I whispered, my voice dropping into an icy, lethal register. “You signed your own death warrant.”
Before Marcus could draw a hidden blade from his sleeve, the study doors flew open with a deafening crash.
