Chapter 6 - The Vow Put to Blood
Three weeks after the shooting, Claire sat in the penthouse’s mahogany-paneled library.
Her sling had been replaced with a more flexible orthopedic brace, allowing her limited use of her left arm. She wore a high-collared, cream-colored silk blouse that cleverly concealed the thick surgical scar running from the base of her throat across her left clavicle, paired with tailored black trousers.
On the marble desk before her lay three separate tablets displaying financial transactions, shipping manifests from the Port of Newark, and wire transfers routed through shell corporations in Panama.
Dominic knocked once before entering, his weathered face grimmer than usual.
"Miss Bennett," he said, nodding with genuine respect. Dominic had never treated her like an underling, but since the shooting, his demeanor toward her bordered on the deference reserved for family royalty. "Vincent asked for your evaluation of the Newark manifest before the meeting."
Claire tapped the glass screen of the center tablet. "The manifest is falsified, Dominic."
Dominic stepped closer. "You're sure?"
"The fuel consumption reported by the *Nordic Star* doesn't match a fully laden container ship carrying textiles," Claire explained with rapid-fire efficiency, her mind operating with the razor-sharp clarity that had made her indispensable. "The draft depth when she docked in Newark was three feet lower than reported on the customs ledger. She wasn't carrying textiles. She dropped half her cargo off the coast of Montauk before entering the harbor. Sal Moretti’s remaining loyalists are smuggling heavy arms into the city using the Petrova shipping line."
Dominic let out a low whistle. "The Petrova line. That means the Russians have officially formed an alliance with Moretti’s remnants."
"Yes," Claire said, looking up. "And they're not planning a corporate takeover, Dominic. They're arming for an open war. Where is Vincent?"
Before Dominic could answer, the double doors swung open, and Vincent entered.
He wore a bespoke navy three-piece suit, his hair swept back, his countenance as sharp and unyielding as a freshly honed blade. Behind him, two guards dragged a man whose hands were zip-tied behind his back, a burlap sack covering his head.
Claire flinched, instinctively pulling her tablet against her chest—the same reflexive motion she had made in the conference room three weeks ago.
Vincent noticed the flinch. His eyes softened for a fraction of a second before hardening into cold iron as he looked at the kneeling captive.
"Take off the hood," Vincent ordered.
Dominic ripped the burlap away.
Claire gasped. The man kneeling on the Persian rug was Nikolai Borodin, the younger brother of Viktor Borodin, the boss of the Brighton Beach Russian syndicate. His face was battered, blood dripping from a split lip onto his stained designer shirt.
"Vincent," Claire whispered, her voice tightening with alarm. "What is this?"
"This is the broker," Vincent said simply, walking behind his desk. He didn't look at Nikolai; his eyes remained on Claire, gauging her reaction. "Three weeks ago, Sal Moretti transferred four million dollars to an offshore account in Cyprus. Nikolai brokered the deal with the mercenary who entered my boardroom. He provided the diplomatic security credentials that bypassed our metal detectors."
Nikolai spat blood onto the polished floorboards, glaring up at Vincent with manic defiance. "You're dead, Caruso! You hear me? Viktor knows I’m here! If I don't check in by five o'clock, fifty men will descend on Hudson Yards! We have RPGs! We have your routes mapped! You think you can lock this city down because your whore took a bullet for you?"
The word had barely left Nikolai's lips when the air left the room.
Vincent didn't yell. He didn't show anger.
In a movement so fast the eye could barely track it, Vincent pulled a heavy, silver-plated Colt .45 from his shoulder holster, racked the slide with a clean, mechanical *clack*, and struck Nikolai across the temple with the steel frame.
Nikolai crashed onto his side with a sickening thud, groaning in agony.
Vincent stepped on Nikolai’s wrist, pinning it to the floor. He pressed the cold muzzle of the weapon directly against the bridge of Nikolai’s broken nose.
"You will speak of Miss Bennett with the reverence you owe the Mother of God," Vincent said, his voice dropping into a deadly, rhythmic whisper that made even Dominic stiffen. "Because she is the only reason your heart is still beating right now."
Claire stood up from the desk, her hand trembling slightly against the wood. "Vincent. Stop."
Vincent didn't move the gun. "Claire, step back."
"I said stop!" Claire’s voice rang through the library, clear, authoritative, and completely devoid of fear.
Dominic and the two guards looked at her in shock. Nobody spoke to Vincent Caruso like that. Nobody survived giving an order to the head of the syndicate.
Vincent’s blue-gray eyes slowly lifted from the bleeding Russian on the floor to meet Claire’s gaze.
"He wants you to kill him," Claire said, her voice steadying as she used the cold logic Vincent respected above all else. "If you execute Viktor Borodin’s brother in this penthouse, you give the Five Families and the Russian syndicate the moral justification they need to launch an all-out street war. The feds will have no choice but to intervene. The National Guard will freeze our shipping corridors. You lose everything we spent four years building."
Vincent maintained his position, his boot still crushing Nikolai’s wrist. "He called you a whore, Claire."
"And he is a corpse who doesn't know it yet," Claire countered without flinching, stepping around the desk until she stood three feet from Vincent. "Do not let a dead man dictate your strategy, Vincent. You taught me that on my first day in the firm. 'Emotions are a tax that weak men pay to the strong.' Did you lie to me?"
The tension in the library was thick enough to choke on. The guards held their breath.
Vincent stared at Claire. For five long seconds, the battle between his unbridled, possessive rage and her cool, calculating intellect played out across the sharp planes of his face.
Then, with an almost imperceptible flick of his wrist, Vincent lowered the hammer of the Colt, clicked the safety back into place, and returned the weapon to his holster.
He stepped off Nikolai’s wrist.
"Dominic," Vincent said, never taking his eyes off Claire.
"Yes, boss?"
"Cut off Nikolai’s left pinky finger. Put it in a velvet box with the shipping manifests Miss Bennett analyzed. Send it to Viktor Borodin with a message: 'Your brother lives as long as the Petrova line ceases operations in Newark by midnight. If a single crate of arms touches the docks, Nikolai’s head arrives in a cooler.'"
Nikolai let out a whimpering sob of relief mixed with terror as the guards hauled him to his feet and dragged him out of the room.
Dominic bowed his head slightly toward Claire before closing the double doors, leaving Vincent and Claire alone in the sudden, echoing silence.
Vincent stepped toward her. Claire stood her ground, though her pulse was hammering in her throat.
"You challenged me in front of my men," Vincent said, his voice soft, dangerous, but vibrating with a strange, dark electricity.
"I saved you from making a tactical blunder," Claire replied, her chin raised. "That is what you pay me for."
Vincent reached out, his hand cupping the side of her neck, his thumb resting right over the frantic fluttering of her pulse. His touch was warm, possessive, and terrifyingly gentle.
May you like
"I don't pay you anymore, Claire," he whispered, closing the distance between them until his lips were inches from hers. "You are not my employee. You are my conscience. And God help anyone who tries to take you from me."
***
