Chapter 3 - The Cold Mask
The heavy oak front doors swung open before Leo Moretti could even knock.
I stood in the entryway wearing my stained apron, clutching a damp rag to my chest, my head bowed and my shoulders hunched in the exact posture of subservience my father had beaten into me since childhood. My heart was hammering so violently against my ribs I was terrified Leo would hear it over the sound of the rain.
"Where is he?" Leo snapped, stepping past me without wiping his Italian leather shoes on the mat.
Leo was thirty-five, slender where Vincent was broad, with slicked-back dark hair, razor-sharp cheekbones, and an expensive bespoke suit that smelled of expensive cologne and tobacco. Behind him walked two hulking enforcers with bulges under their tailored coats.
"In... in the dining room, sir," I stammered, my voice deliberately high and reedy, trembling with well-rehearsed fear. "He had another fit. He broke a glass. I was just cleaning up the mess."
Leo paused, glancing down at me with cold, dismissive contempt. His lips curled into a sneer. "Fifty dollars well spent, it seems. At least you know how to wipe up his filth. Out of my way."
He shoved past me, marching into the dining room.
I followed half a step behind, keeping my eyes fixed on the floor.
Vincent was sitting at the head of the long mahogany table. To anyone looking, he appeared completely broken. A dark wool beanie was pulled low over his head, deliberately covering his right ear. His head rested against his propped fist, his eyes staring blankly into the middle distance, dull and unfocused. On the table before him sat a notepad and a gold pen.
Beside him, the shattered glass lay untouched on the floor, while the porcelain bowl had been hidden away inside the lower kitchen cabinet along with the bloody tweezers.
"Vincent," Leo said aloud, his voice dripping with false concern.
Vincent didn't move. He didn't blink. He played the part of the stone deaf boss to absolute perfection.
Leo smirked, turning to his two men. "Look at him. The great Vincent Moretti, reduced to an ornamental gargoyle. Every time the pressure drops in this damn city, his brain leaks out of his ears."
My blood ran cold. The sheer disrespect, the casual cruelty in Leo’s voice made my stomach churn.
Leo walked around the table until he was standing directly behind Vincent’s right shoulder. He leaned down, his mouth barely an inch from the covered ear.
"Can you feel it rotting inside you, cousin?" Leo whispered, not caring who heard, completely confident that Vincent was trapped in total silence. "The doctors told me the necrosis would start spreading to your temporal lobe by your fortieth birthday. You’ve got maybe two years left before you're drooling in a nursing home."
I saw the microscopic twitch in Vincent's left hand beneath the table. The fingernails dug deep into his thigh, but his face remained an unreadable mask of stone.
Leo straightened up, laughing softly as he tapped Vincent on the shoulder.
Vincent blinked, turning his head slowly, feigning surprise at Leo’s presence. He picked up the gold pen and scribbled on the notepad: Why are you here?
Leo took the pen from his hand, writing back in bold, arrogant strokes: Checking on the dock shipments. Heard you had an episode.
While Vincent pretended to read the note, Leo turned his back to him, facing his lead enforcer, a scarred man named Marco.
"The device went offline at 8:58," Leo told Marco in a normal, conversational tone. "Dr. Ward said if the battery failed, the neural filaments would trigger an immediate cerebral hemorrhage. But the bastard is still sitting up. Call the clinic. Tell Ward we need a secondary dose of the neurotoxin delivered before the gala on Friday. I’m not waiting another year to take the Don's seat."
"What about the girl?" Marco nodded toward me.
Leo didn't even look at me. "Her father’s a degenerate gambler who owes forty grand to our loan sharks on 22nd Street. He sold her for fifty bucks and a bottle of gin just to clear a night’s interest. When Vincent dies at the gala, we’ll put a bullet in her head, throw her body in the trunk of his car, and tell the Commission she poisoned him for the inheritance. Two birds, one stone."
Every drop of air left my lungs.
They had planned this from the very beginning. My father hadn't just sold me to settle a debt; Leo had arranged the debt specifically to place an expendable scapegoat inside Vincent's house. I was never meant to be a wife. I was meant to be the murder weapon.
Vincent finished reading the handwritten note. He looked up at Leo with calm, expressionless eyes. He picked up the pen and wrote three words:
Everything is fine.
Leo smiled, a predatory grin that made my skin crawl. He patted Vincent on the shoulder with patronizing warmth. "Glad to hear it, cousin. Get some rest. You have a very big night ahead of you at the Drake Hotel."
Leo turned on his heel and walked out of the dining room, his enforcers trailing behind him.
I stood by the doorway, listening as the heavy front doors clicked shut, followed by the roar of the Cadillac engines fading down the long, winding drive.
Only when the iron gates clicked shut at the perimeter did the silence return.
Vincent slowly reached up and pulled the dark wool beanie from his head.
The blood from his ear canal had dried against his neck. His gray eyes were no longer dull or unfocused; they burned with an ancient, terrifying wrath that made the air in the room feel heavy and charged with static electricity.
He stood up, towering over the table.
"Dr. Ward," Vincent spoke, his voice dropping into a register so dark it sent chills down my spine. "My father's personal physician for twenty-five years. And Leo. My own flesh and blood."
He walked toward me, his heavy steps silent against the floor. He stopped an inch away, looking down at my pale, trembling face.
"They were going to frame you for my murder," he said softly, reaching out to gently tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear.
"They... they said you have two years left," I whispered, tears spilling over my lashes. "They said it was rotting your brain."
May you like
Vincent’s lips curved into a dark, humorless smile.
"They underestimated my wife," Vincent said, his thumb wiping away a tear from my cheek. "Get your coat, Clara. We’re going to pay Dr. Ward a midnight visit."
