Chapter 6 - The Broken Mirror
By the time Vincent returned to the grand foyer of Greystone, the storm outside had broken. Rain was hammering against the high arched stained-glass windows, and thunder rumbled across the valley like heavy artillery.
Marco Bellini stood near the foot of the grand staircase, holding a heavy tactical flashlight in his left hand and his suppressed pistol in his right. He was alone. His face was drenched in sweat, his slicked-back hair falling in damp strands over his forehead.
He had heard the gunfire from the cellar. He had tried to reach Geno on the radio, but received only static.
“Geno!” Marco called out, his voice cracking with hysteria as he swept his flashlight beam across the dark marble floor. “Geno, answer me!”
From the top of the grand staircase, a shadows moved.
Vincent stepped out into the dim moonlight, holding the assault rifle at his waist, looking down at his former friend like a judge standing over a condemned man.
“Geno won't be answering, Marco,” Vincent said quietly.
Marco froze. He slowly lifted his flashlight beam until the bright white glare struck Vincent’s face.
Vincent didn't blink. His dark eyes remained fixed on Marco through the blinding light.
“You brought three men into my house, Marco,” Vincent said, his voice echoing off the high plaster ceilings. “They are all dead in the wine cellar. Your detail at the gatehouse has fled into the woods after I cut the main power lines.”
Marco’s hand trembled so violently that the flashlight beam bounced crazily across the marble walls.
“Vincent...” Marco stammered, dropping his arrogant posture, his voice reverting back to the pathetic, pleading tone of a man who realized his life was over. “Vincent, please... listen to me. It wasn't just my idea! It was the Chicago Capos! They threatened to kill me if I didn't help them take over your shipping lines!”
Vincent slowly descended the grand staircase, his heavy boots striking each marble step with rhythmic, terrifying precision.
“You lied to me about my wife,” Vincent said softly, taking another step down. “You let me believe she died in a burning car in Boston.”
“She wanted to leave you, Vincent!” Marco shrieked, backing away toward the heavy oak front doors. “She hated this life! She hated the blood! She hated the paranoia! She begged me to help her escape!”
Vincent stopped three steps from the bottom of the staircase.
“And Elena?” Vincent asked. “Why did you keep Elena in fear for two years?”
Marco backed his shoulders against the heavy oak front door, realizing there was nowhere left to run.
“Because if she knew who you really were—if she knew you were a billionaire Don and not just a cold monster who lived in a dark house—she would have asked you for help!” Marco yelled, his eyes wild with terror. “And if you helped her, you would have looked into her mother’s past! You would have found the offshore accounts! You would have found me!”
Vincent looked at Marco for a long, heavy moment.
For twelve years, this man had sat at his dining table. This man had attended his daughter’s funeral. This man had held Vincent’s shoulder while Vincent wept beside an empty casket in a Boston cemetery.
Every tear Vincent had shed for five years had been a joke to the man standing before him.
“You know, Marco,” Vincent said quietly, stepping off the last marble stair onto the foyer floor. “When Sophia died, I thought God was punishing me for the sins I committed in this business.”
He raised the assault rifle, lining up the sights with Marco’s chest.
“But tonight,” Vincent whispered, “I realize God was just waiting for me to clean my house.”
“Vincent, wait!” Marco screamed, raising his pistol in a final, desperate act of violence.
Pfft-pfft-pfft!
Vincent pulled the trigger three times.
The 9mm rounds struck Marco full in the chest. The force of the impact slammed Marco backward against the heavy oak door, leaving three bright red smears against the dark wood before he slid slowly down onto the cold marble floor.
The pistol clattered from Marco’s lifeless fingers, rolling across the floor until it struck the toe of Vincent’s boot.
Vincent stood over Marco’s body for a long moment, listening to the heavy rain hammering against the glass above.
May you like
There was no joy in his chest. No satisfaction. Only a vast, empty silence where five years of grief had once lived.
Vincent turned his back on the dead man and walked up the grand staircase toward the locked nursery at the end of the hall.
