Chapter 9 - The Mask Slips
“Vincent! Put him down!” Frank Bellini’s voice cracked through the library as the consigliere stepped into the room, his hands raised in alarm. “If you kill him in this house, the council will declare war! The South Side capos will burn the docks before sunrise!”
Vincent didn’t drop Marco. He squeezed tighter. Marco’s face was turning a dark, mottled purple, his eyes bulging as he clawed desperately at Vincent’s iron forearm.
“Let them burn,” Vincent growled, his knuckles white. “I built this empire with blood, Frank. I can burn it to ash and rebuild it over his corpse.”
“Boss, please!” Julian Rossi scrambled out of his chair, backing away toward the wall, trembling. “Marco didn’t tell me anything! I swear on my mother’s soul, I didn’t know about the Tarasovs!”
“Julian,” Vincent said, still staring into Marco’s suffocating eyes. “If you speak one more word in my presence without being asked, Sal will put a bullet through your kneecap.”
Julian slammed his mouth shut, flattening himself against the bookshelf.
Vincent turned his attention back to his dying uncle. “You called Nikolai because you knew that if Lily lived, the inheritance clause was satisfied. My father’s will explicitly states that any child born of my blood secures my permanent claim to the Moretti syndicate—no marriage required.”
Marco choked out a rasping gasp, unable to form words.
“You wanted her dead before she could be tested,” Vincent said, his voice dropping to a terrifying register. “You wanted her buried so you could take my chair. You tried to murder a four-year-old girl fighting for her life.”
Vincent slammed Marco onto the hardwood floor.
Marco collapsed in a heap, coughing violently, sucking air into his bruised windpipe while clutching his throat. Frank immediately stepped between them, though he kept a cautious three feet of distance from Vincent.
“Vincent, listen to reason,” Frank pleaded, his silver hair disheveled. “Marco committed treason against the family. By our laws, he is a dead man. But if you execute him without a formal tribunal, the other five families in New York will see it as a rogue purge. They’ll back the Tarasovs, and we’ll be fighting a two-front war while your daughter is in surgery!”
Vincent stood over his uncle, looking down at him with undisguised disgust.
“Sal,” Vincent commanded.
“Boss,” Sal responded instantly.
“Take Marco down to the wine cellar beneath the vault. Strip him of his phone, his watch, and his shoes. If he so much as breathes too loudly, break his fingers one by one.”
“Understood.” Sal stepped forward, hauling the hacking older man to his feet by the collar of his camel coat.
Marco looked up at Vincent, blood trickling from his lip, his eyes burning with unfiltered hatred. “You think you’ve won, boy? You think Nikolai doesn’t know where she is? He has half the Russian brigade mobilizing on I-94 right now! You can’t protect her from what’s coming!”
“Take him away,” Vincent said coldly.
Sal dragged Marco out of the library, leaving a trail of scuffed leather marks on the floor.
Julian Rossi stood shivering in the corner. Vincent turned to him. “Julian. You run the logistics for the docks. Starting now, you reroute every armed crew we have to the perimeter of this estate. If a single Russian vehicle crosses the county line and you didn’t warn us, I won’t just kill you—I’ll wipe your entire family from Chicago.”
“Y-yes, Boss! Immediately!” Julian practically threw himself toward the door, fleeing the room as fast as his legs could carry him.
Frank remained, adjusting his tie with unsteady fingers. “Vincent… what about the girl? Did Evans get the test results?”
Before Vincent could answer, the library doors opened again. Dr. Evans entered, wearing a blood-spattered surgical scrub top, holding a manila folder in his hands. His face was completely pale.
Watching through the monitor in the parlor, my heart stopped. I stood up from the chair, abandoning the screen, and unlocked the heavy door. I ran down the long corridor toward the library, my sneakers squeaking against the polished marble.
I burst into the library just as Dr. Evans opened the folder.
“Claire,” Vincent said, turning around, his hand instinctively reaching out to steady me as I stopped in front of him, out of breath. “I told you to stay with Lily.”
“I don’t care what you told me,” I breathed, staring at Dr. Evans. “Doctor, tell me. Is he a match? Can you save her?”
Dr. Evans looked between Vincent and me, swallowing hard.
“Mr. Moretti’s HLA panel is an identical ten-out-of-ten match,” Dr. Evans said.
A wave of dizzying relief washed over me so violently that my knees buckled. Vincent caught me by the waist, his strong arm supporting my weight, pulling me against his bare chest. For a second, the crushing weight of the last six months—the endless hospital stays, the sleepless nights, the terror of watching my baby waste away—disappeared.
“He can do the transplant,” I sobbed, tears finally breaking free, soaking into Vincent’s skin. “She’s going to live.”
“Wait,” Dr. Evans said, raising a trembling hand.
The room went dead silent.
“What is it, Evans?” Vincent asked, his grip tightening around me, his voice sharpening to a razor edge.
“The match is perfect, Mr. Moretti,” Dr. Evans said, his voice laced with dread. “The problem isn’t your marrow. The problem is Lily’s lab results. We ran a full toxicological screen alongside her CBC.”
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I froze, pulling away from Vincent’s chest to look the doctor in the eye. “What are you talking about? What toxicological screen?”
“Lily didn’t just have an acute blast crisis on the plane, Claire,” Dr. Evans said quietly, looking at me with profound sorrow. “Her bone marrow suppression wasn’t caused by a natural relapse. Someone has been administering low doses of a synthetic immunosuppressant toxin to her over the last three weeks. She didn’t get sick by accident. Your daughter has been poisoned.”
