Chapter 2 - The House of Glass and Lies
The typing indicator did not return.
Vincent frantically tapped the screen, commanding his network to trace the signal, but the screen abruptly flashed white and went dark. The hardware had fried itself from the inside out—a military-grade self-destruct protocol triggered by a reverse payload.
"Dante!" Vincent roared.
Within five seconds, the office doors swung open. Dante Rossi, Vincent’s underboss and closest confidant since childhood, stepped into the room with his hand already resting on the grip of his customized Glock. His sharp, calculating eyes immediately took in the shattered glass, the spilled bourbon, and the manic fury burning in Vincent’s gaze.
"Boss?" Dante asked, his posture stiffening. "What happened? Emily was crying in the hallway."
Vincent thrust the dead burner phone into Dante’s chest. "Take this to our tech team at the docks. I want the solid-state drive excavated. I want every satellite relay, every proxy node, every breadcrumb traced back to its origin. Someone just sent me an image of Claire from the day she disappeared."
Dante looked down at the charred phone, his jaw tightening. "Claire? After three years? Vincent, we turned every stone in North America, Europe, and the Caribbean. If she’s reaching out now—"
"She didn't reach out," Vincent interrupted, his voice dropping into a dangerous register that sent a shiver down even Dante’s spine. "Someone is watching her. Or someone helped her vanish under our noses. And there’s something else."
Vincent turned his back, staring down at the sprawling labyrinth of Chicago lights beneath the pouring rain. "She was pregnant when she left. Eight weeks. My child."
Dante stood frozen, the breath whistling through his teeth. "Jesus Christ."
"Find the sender, Dante. Use every asset. Burn through the offshore accounts if you have to. If I don't have an address in forty-eight hours, people will start disappearing from this city."
"Understood." Dante nodded curtly and vanished down the corridor.
Vincent left the penthouse office and walked down the long, carpeted hallway of the estate’s residential wing. Every portrait on the wall felt like an accusation. For seven years, Claire had decorated these halls with warmth, introducing light and life into a world soaked in gunpowder. She had greeted his capos with quiet dignity, patched up his bullet wounds with steady, unflinching hands, and held him in the dead of night when the nightmares of his violent ascent threatened to drag him under.
He had repaid her by giving her husband’s heart to a coward.
As he reached the central foyer, the clicking of high heels echoed against the marble staircase.
Sophia Reynolds descended the stairs, clad in an ivory silk robe that trailed behind her. Her golden hair was styled impeccably, yet her face bore the heavy mask of perpetual discontent. Behind her, a nanny quietly carried a toddler—a three-year-old boy named Julian, whose paternity had become an unspoken, poisonous fog over the household.
"Vincent?" Sophia’s voice was soft, laced with that practiced, fragile vulnerability that had once driven him mad with protective desire. "I heard shouting earlier. Emily was in hysterics. What is going on? You’re scaring the staff."
Vincent stopped at the foot of the stairs, looking at her. For the first time in three years, the veil of romanticized nostalgia completely dissolved. He didn't see the fragile angel he had idealized in his youth. He saw a calculating woman who had waited until her own wealthy husband went bankrupt before running into the arms of Chicago’s most lethal predator.
"Where were you the night Claire left?" Vincent asked coldly.
Sophia blinked, caught off guard. A defensive flicker crossed her hazel eyes. "What? Vincent, that was three years ago! I was in the hospital, recovering from complications with my pregnancy! You were right there with me, remember?"
"I remember," Vincent said, stepping closer. The sheer aura of menace rolling off him caused Sophia to instinctively step back a pace. "I remember kneeling at your bedside like an obedient dog, swearing I would throw away seven years of loyalty for your tears."
"Vincent, stop it!" Sophia whispered, glancing nervously at the nanny, who immediately hurried Julian back up the stairs. "We agreed not to talk about this! Claire chose to leave! She abandoned you! She couldn't handle this life, Vincent! She was an outsider—an ordinary woman who got lucky, and when things got complicated, she ran!"
"She was carrying my child, Sophia."
The color completely drained from Sophia’s face. Her lips parted, but no sound came out. Her pupils dilated with genuine, naked terror.
"You... you’re lying," she stammered, clutching her silk robe tighter against her chest. "She couldn't... she was infertile! You told me yourself you tried for years!"
"We thought she was," Vincent snarled, stepping up until he was towering over her, his breath warm and lethal against her skin. "The records were hidden. But you... you and Emily were practically inseparable back then. Emily knew Claire was visiting specialists. Did you know, Sophia?"
"No! I swear to God, Vincent, I didn't!" Her voice rose in a shrill panic. "Why are you doing this to us? Julian is your son! We are your family now! Claire is gone! She’s probably dead in a ditch somewhere, or sleeping in another man’s bed—"
Vincent’s hand shot out, catching her by the throat. He didn't squeeze, but the cold steel of his signet ring pressed hard against her windpipe.
Sophia choked, her eyes bulging in disbelief. In seven years, Vincent had never once laid a violent hand on a woman in his home.
"Never say her name with that mouth again," Vincent hissed, his eyes dead and merciless. "Julian has a trust fund that guarantees he will never starve. But you? The only reason you are still breathing the air in this house is because I haven't yet proven how much you lied to me. Pray that I don't find out, Sophia. Because if I find out you had anything to do with Claire’s disappearance, not even God will save you from me."
He released her. Sophia collapsed against the polished banister, coughing and clutching her neck, sobbing violently.
May you like
Vincent didn't look back. He turned on his heel and walked out into the biting cold of the garage, where his armored Maybach waited. He needed blood, he needed answers, and he was going to tear Chicago apart until he found the ghost that haunted him.
***
