Chapter 6 - BLOOD ON THE MARBLE
The hospital room door opened slowly.
Vincent Cole stepped inside, carrying a large leather briefcase. Behind him stood a tall, broad-shouldered enforcer named Marco—a man Dante had personally hired three years ago to guard the estate perimeter.
Vincent stopped in his tracks when he saw Dante sitting upright in the bed, his dark eyes fully conscious and staring directly at him.
Vincent’s polished, friendly mask slipped for a fraction of a second before he recovered his calm smile.
“Dante,” Vincent said smoothly, walking toward the bed with open arms. “My God, it’s a miracle. The doctors told us on Saturday that you might never wake up.”
Dante did not smile. He did not move a single muscle. “Where have you been, Vincent?”
Vincent sighed, an expression of heavy, solemn regret crossing his handsome face. “Managing the wreckage, my boy. The Morettis saw your accident as an opening. They attacked three of our liquor warehouses on Saturday night. I had to make emergency moves to keep the family from completely tearing itself apart.”
Vincent stepped closer, setting his heavy briefcase on the small visitor table. He glanced sideways at Elena, his brow furrowing in fake irritation.
“Elena,” Vincent said in his quiet, commanding tone. “Why are you still here? I told Dolores to send you back to the estate hours ago. Leave us. The boss and I have private business.”
Elena did not move. She stood beside Dante’s bed like a stone statue.
“She stays,” Dante said, his rasping voice cutting through the room with absolute authority.
Vincent paused, his eyes narrowing slightly as he looked between Dante and the quiet maid. He let out a soft, amused chuckle.
“Dante, you’re confused. You’ve suffered a massive concussion,” Vincent said smoothly, reaching inside his suit jacket to pull out a thick stack of legal documents. “I brought the emergency power of attorney papers. The syndicate captains need your signature so we can legally lock down the harbor accounts before the federal marshals step in.”
Vincent leaned over the bed, holding a pen out toward Dante’s right hand.
Dante looked down at the paper. His dark eyes caught the third line of the contract—a clause that permanently transferred full operational control of the Marchetti shipping lines to an offshore holding company owned exclusively by Vincent Cole and the Moretti family.
Dante looked up into the eyes of the man who had stood beside his father for fifteen years.
“Pier 14,” Dante said quietly.
Vincent’s smile stiffened. “What about it?”
“The white truck didn't have its lights on, Vincent,” Dante said, his voice cold as liquid nitrogen. “The driver wasn't an independent trucker. He was a Moretti soldier named Luca Rossi. I recognized his face through the windshield right before the impact.”
The room went dead silent.
Vincent’s outstretched hand slowly lowered the pen. The polished, friendly expression completely vanished from his face, replaced by a cold, calculating emptiness that revealed the true monster underneath.
“You always were too sharp for your own good, Dante,” Vincent said softly, his voice dropping all pretense. “Just like your father. Your father didn't know when to step down either.”
Dante’s blood ran cold. “My father died of a heart attack.”
“Your father died because I put two milligrams of digitalis in his evening brandy every night for six weeks,” Vincent confessed quietly, leaning in close so only Dante could hear. “He was getting old. He was getting cautious. He was blocking my expansion with the Morettis. And now, you’re doing the exact same thing.”
Vincent motioned with his hand toward the guard standing near the door.
“Marco,” Vincent said flatly. “Make it look like a sudden respiratory failure. The doctors will assume his lungs collapsed from the accident trauma.”
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Marco drew a heavy, suppressed pistol from beneath his jacket, stepping toward the bed.
Before Marco could raise the barrel, Elena moved.
