Chapter 3 - Shadows on the Pacific Coast Highway
The temperature in the study plummeted. Silas’s mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water, his silver tongue finally failing him as the trap snapped shut around his ankles.
Bruno’s hand slid imperceptibly inside his jacket, his massive frame shifting to block the only exit toward the hallway.
“Boss,” Silas stammered, holding up his hands in a placating gesture, sweat beading heavily on his forehead. “Boss, listen to yourself. You’re letting a stranger manipulate you. We’ve been brothers for fifteen years! You trusted me with the books, with the shipping routes, with Isabella’s funeral arrangements—”
“Especially with Isabella’s funeral arrangements,” Vincent whispered.
Vincent walked slowly around the desk, his movements measured and terrifyingly calm. He stopped three feet away from Silas, towering over the underboss.
“Two years ago,” Vincent said, his voice barely above a whisper, “you told me the brakes on Isabella’s car failed on a sharp curve outside of Monterey. You told me the car caught fire before rescue teams could reach her. You told me her remains were recovered.”
“They were!” Silas choked out. “The coroner—!”
“The coroner was on your payroll,” Vincent interrupted.
Vincent’s fist lashed out with blinding speed. The punch caught Silas squarely on the jaw, sending the slick underboss crashing backward into a mahogany bookcase. Heavy leather-bound volumes rained down around him as Silas slid to the floor, clutching his bleeding mouth, gasping for air.
“Bruno,” Vincent commanded without raising his voice. “Empty his pockets.”
Bruno moved with terrifying efficiency, hauling Silas up by his lapels and patting him down. Within seconds, Bruno pulled a heavy, encrypted satellite phone and a sleek metal flash drive from Silas’s inner jacket pocket, handing them directly to Vincent.
Vincent looked down at the items, his jaw clenching so hard a muscle twitched in his cheek.
“You wanted the throne, Silas,” Vincent said coldly, turning the encrypted phone over in his hand. “You thought grief had made me weak. You thought that by eliminating Isabella, you could slowly bleed the syndicate dry and hand my territories over to the western cartels.”
Silas spat a mouthful of blood onto the Persian rug. The terrified, stuttering facade vanished entirely, replaced by a twisted, malicious grin.
“And what if I did?” Silas laughed harshly, wiping his lip with the back of his hand. “You were blind, Vincent! You cared more about your wife’s charity galas than the expansion of the family. She found out about my offshore accounts. She threatened to tell you. What was I supposed to do? Let her ruin everything we built?”
Vincent didn’t yell. He didn’t roar.
May you like
Instead, a terrifying, humorless smile touched the corners of his mouth.
“You made one fatal mistake, Silas,” Vincent said softly. “You thought she was alone.”
