Chapter 2 - Rules of the House
By the time Friday arrived, the atmosphere inside the Marquetti estate had shifted in ways that defied every unwritten law of the Chicago underworld.
The grand dining table—a sixteen-foot slab of polished macassar ebony that had previously hosted capos, corrupt judges, and high-stakes bookmakers—was now occupied every morning at 7:00 AM by three items: an espresso cup, a silver pitcher of warm milk, and a laminated piece of construction paper covered in jagged, purple-crayon lettering.
Vincent sat at the head of the table, dressed in a crisp French-cuff shirt and charcoal trousers, his reading glasses perched on the bridge of his straight nose as he reviewed shipping manifests from the Port of Montreal.
Beside his elbow lay Lily’s list.
1. *Wash hands before you touch bread.*
2. *No yelling when people are sleepy.*
3. *Always say please to Mama.*
4. *Eat your eggs or no juice.*
Opposite him, perched on a booster cushion that Elena had bought at a discount store and tried desperately to hide in the butler's pantry, sat Lily. She was currently dissecting a blueberry pancake with the precision of a surgeon, her brow furrowed in deep concentration.
Elena stood three paces back, clutching a polished wooden tray, her nerves still strung tight as piano wire. She hadn't slept properly in three days. Every time Vincent glanced up from his documents, she braced herself for the dismissal—or the cold command to pack their bags.
Instead, Vincent reached out with his left hand, his broad fingers adorned with an antique signet ring depicting the Marquetti crest, and picked up a piece of toast.
"Mr. Vincent," Lily said immediately, her voice cutting through the rustle of papers.
Vincent didn't flinch. He slowly set the toast back down onto the porcelain plate. He removed his reading glasses, folded them with deliberate care, and placed them atop the shipping documents.
"Yes, Lillian?"
"What did you forget?"
Vincent turned his cool gray gaze toward her. To any street boss from Cicero, that look meant your operations were about to be seized and your teeth knocked into the gutter. To Lily, it was merely an invitation to correct his deficient manners.
"I washed my hands four minutes ago in the lavatory," Vincent said smoothly. "With the lemon-scented soap your mother placed there."
Lily inspected his fingers from across the table. Her scrutiny was thorough. "Okay. But you didn't say please when Mama poured your coffee."
Elena stepped forward hastily, her face flushing crimson. "Mr. Marquetti, please, she doesn't mean—it's my job to pour the coffee, sir, you don't need to—"
"Elena," Vincent cut in, not raising his voice.
She stopped, her breath catching.
Vincent looked down at his porcelain cup, filled with the dark, scalding roast she had prepared just as he liked it. Then he looked at Elena. There was something unreadable in the depths of his pale eyes—an ancient fatigue, perhaps, or a shadow of something long buried under decades of violence and paranoia.
"Please pour another half-cup, Elena," he said quietly. "If it isn't too much trouble."
Elena’s heart skipped a strange, erratic beat. "Of... of course, Mr. Marquetti."
She stepped forward, her hands steadying as she tipped the silver pot. As she poured, she caught the faint scent of him—expensive sandalwood, clean linen, and the unmistakable, metallic tang of cold steel from the firearm resting in his shoulder rig. He was entirely lethal, a man whose name made hardened detectives sweat through their shirts, yet here he sat, submitting to the tyrannical etiquette of a preschooler.
"Thank you," Vincent said when she finished.
Lily beamed, nodding her approval. "Good job, Mr. Vincent. You get a star."
From the pocket of her pink overalls, Lily produced a sheet of metallic foil stars. She peeled a silver one off with her tiny fingernails, leaned perilously across the sixteen-foot ebony table, and reached for his hand.
Dante, standing guard by the terrace doors, visibly held his breath.
Vincent didn't pull away. He extended his large, scarred hand—a hand that bore the pale, jagged track of a knife wound across the knuckles—and allowed the little girl to press the silver star firmly onto the center of his skin.
"There," Lily declared, patting his knuckle with satisfaction. "Now you’re good."
A flicker of something warm and utterly foreign danced across Vincent’s harsh features. His mouth, usually set in an uncompromising slash, curved upward by a fraction of a millimeter.
May you like
"I shall endeavor to maintain this standard," Vincent said.
"You have to," Lily replied, stuffing
