Chapter 4 - The Scent of Bitter Almond
Vanessa dropped her cup. The fine bone china shattered against the hearth, dark Earl Grey splashing across her designer ivory pumps.
"Adrian!" She lunged forward, her face instantly morphing into an expression of theatrical relief. "My God, you scared us to death! Where have you been? Where is the child?"
I didn't look at her. My eyes stayed locked on Vincent.
My younger brother had always looked more like our mother—slender, handsome, with an easy smile that disarmed prosecutors and bankers alike. But right now, the color had drained from his cheeks, leaving him a sickly shade of gray beneath his Mediterranean tan.
"You took the back entrance," Vincent said, rising slowly from my chair. His hand hovered an inch above the waistband of his trousers, where I knew he carried a custom Sig Sauer. "You never take the service doors."
"I wanted to see how well my house was guarded," I said, closing the parlor doors behind me with a gentle push. The heavy oak clicked shut. "Marco didn't even look up from his screen. If I were a federal marshal, you'd both be in zip-ties."
Vanessa attempted a laugh, stepping between us with her arms crossed. "Darling, let’s not be melodramatic. We were worried about you. Claire’s death has clearly shaken your judgment. Salvatore is waiting at the Metropolitan Club. We have the final contracts for the harbor terminal development to sign before the stock exchange closes."
"The harbor can wait," I said, walking slowly toward the desk.
Vincent backed up two paces, clearing the space behind my chair. He knew the predator within me far better than Vanessa did. He had seen me clear a room of rival smugglers in Marseille with nothing but a utility knife and a brass paperweight.
"Adrian," Vincent murmured, his voice tightening. "What’s going on? Where is Lily?"
"She’s having lunch with Maya Reyes," I said.
The name hit the room like a detonator.
Vanessa gasped, her eyes darting instinctively toward Vincent. Vincent’s jaw clamped shut so hard I heard the enamel grind.
"Maya Reyes?" Vanessa repeated, her voice climbing an octave. "That—that anti-corruption pit bull? Adrian, Maya Reyes has been trying to subpoena our family’s logistics books for three years! Why would you bring a housekeeper's orphan to an attorney who wants to indict you?"
"Because Claire didn't leave her daughter to an orphanage," I said, reaching into my pocket.
I didn't draw a gun. I drew a small amber prescription vial that I had retrieved from Claire’s nightstand five minutes before entering the parlor—a bottle labeled *Magnesium Supplement*, prescribed by our private family physician, Dr. Gerald Harrison.
I tossed it onto the desk. It rolled across the polished leather and stopped against Vincent’s knuckles.
"Claire had no history of heart disease," I said softly. "No family record of cancer. But two months ago, she started getting peripheral neuropathy. Then vomiting. Then her hair began falling out in the shower. Dr. Harrison told her it was aggressive lymphoma."
"It *was* lymphoma," Vincent said, his fingers twitching away from the vial. "Harrison is the chief of oncology at Mount Sinai. He's been our physician since we were boys."
"Harrison took a four-million-dollar wire transfer from an offshore account in the Cayman Islands six weeks ago," I said, bluffing with a precision that chilled the air. Maya hadn't confirmed the exact wire amount yet, but the look that flickered across Vincent’s eyes told me my arrow had struck dead center. "And that vial doesn't contain magnesium. It contains thallium sulfate. Odorless. Tasteless. Highly soluble in morning tea."
Vanessa stepped back, her back hitting the edge of the fireplace mantel. "This is absurd. You've lost your mind. Vincent, tell him he's being insane!"
"Shut up, Vanessa," Vincent hissed without looking at her. His eyes were pinned to mine. "Adrian... you don't understand the pressure we were under. The Romanos—"
"The Romanos didn't build this family," I said, taking another step forward. The distance between us was down to four feet. "I built it. When our father died in a federal holding cell, I took the debt, the blood, and the targets on our backs, and I turned it into a four-billion-dollar enterprise. I gave you half of everything."
"And you were going to throw it away for a nurse from Lake Tahoe!" Vincent suddenly roared, his control completely shattering.
The mask was off. The polished, elegant younger brother was gone; in his place was a creature consumed by five years of festering panic.
"You were going to walk away!" Vincent spat, saliva flying from his lips. "You were going to settle down in some mountain cabin with a nobody while the Romano family prepared to tear our shipping lanes apart! Salvatore told me plainly: *Either Adrian marries my daughter and merges our operations, or the Morettis cease to exist.* What was I supposed to do? Let you destroy us for a woman who didn't even have a trust fund?"
"So you told me she died," I whispered.
"I tried to make her disappear!" Vincent shouted. "I paid her three million dollars to vanish into the Midwest! But she wouldn't stay gone! She came back to New York with that kid! She threatened to go to the press, to come to your office, to blow the merger apart! I had to bring her inside where we could keep her quiet!"
"And when she realized Lily was getting older?" I asked, my voice terrifyingly calm. "When she realized Lily was starting to look like me?"
Vanessa suddenly lunged forward, her manicured fingers clawing at my sleeve. "She was a parasite, Adrian! She was going to ruin everything we worked for! My father has five hundred men across the five boroughs! Do you think he would let his daughter be humiliated by a bastard child from an alpine fling? Claire had to be dealt with!"
I looked down at Vanessa. The beautiful society debutante. The woman whose diamond ring had cost two million dollars.
I reached down, took her wrist, and pried her fingers off my coat with enough pressure to leave dark purple bruises beneath her gold Cartier bracelets.
"You touched the mother of my child," I said.
Vanessa froze, the breath catching in her throat. "What?"
"Lily is not a bastard," I said, leaning down until my mouth was inches from her ear. "The Maryland forensics lab confirmed the paternity match twenty minutes ago. Lily is a Moretti. She is my sole legal heir. Which means, Vanessa... everything your father wanted, everything you schemed to steal through this wedding, belongs to a four-year-old girl in moon-print pajamas."
Vanessa’s knees gave out. She slipped to the floor, her dress bunching around her like a broken parachute.
Vincent reached for his gun.
He was fast. But I had spent twelve years surviving men who were faster.
Before his Sig Sauer could clear the leather holster, my right hand struck his wrist like an iron vise, twisting the joint until bone popped. The gun dropped to the rug. In the same motion, my left arm drove into his throat, slamming him backward across the mahogany desk. Crystal decanters shattered. Rare scotch pooled across my father’s old ledgers.
I pressed my forearm into Vincent’s windpipe, leaning my full weight upon his chest until his heels drummed frantically against the carpet.
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"You have one chance to save your life, brother," I whispered into his darkening face. "Where is Salvatore Romano right now?"
***
