Chapter 3 - The Broken Compass
The master suite on the third floor of the Rossi estate was larger than Linda’s entire apartment building.
It featured a massive stone fireplace, velvet sofas, a king-sized bed wrapped in Egyptian cotton, and a floor-to-ceiling glass wall overlooking the dark, rain-soaked gardens below.
The three girls had finally fallen asleep in the adjacent nursery suite under the watchful eyes of Maria—the estate's elderly housekeeper who had raised Vincent when he was a boy. Maria had wept tears of pure joy when she saw the three little girls, immediately fixing them hot chocolate, warm blankets, and fresh pajamas.
Now, only Vincent and Linda remained in the master study.
The room was lit only by the golden glow of the fireplace. On the dark mahogany desk sat a bottle of twenty-year-old Scotch and two crystal glasses.
Linda stood near the fireplace, holding her arms wrapped tight around her waist, staring into the flames. She had taken off her worn jacket, revealing a simple white cotton long-sleeved shirt.
Vincent walked up behind her. He had removed his shoulder holster and heavy jacket, his dark dress shirt unbuttoned at the neck, sleeves rolled up to his elbows.
The jagged compass tattoo on his forearm caught the light of the fire.
Without a word, Vincent reached out. His large, warm hand grasped the hem of her white shirt and pulled it gently upward over her left shoulder.
Linda went rigid, but she didn't stop him.
There, resting right above her left collarbone, was the exact same tattoo. A broken compass, its needle permanently frozen pointing southeast. The black ink was slightly faded, the skin slightly raised—a mark etched into her flesh five years ago by a back-alley artist who didn't ask questions.
Vincent’s thumb brushed gently over the raised ink on her soft skin. His touch was surprisingly gentle for a man who killed people for a living.
"You got it anyway," Vincent murmured softly, his voice thick with a sudden, dark emotion. "After you ran from me... you went and got my mark."
Linda let out a shaky, trembling breath, her eyes staying locked on the fire. "I didn't get it for you, Vincent. I got it so that when I looked in the mirror every morning, I would remember why I had to stay away."
Vincent pulled his hand back, stepping in front of her so she was forced to look at him.
"Seven years ago, Linda," Vincent said, his gray-blue eyes burning with an intense, agonizing pain. "You walked out of my penthouse in the middle of the night. You didn't leave a note. You didn't leave a trace. I spent two years tearing this city apart looking for your body. I thought Don Falcone had taken you. I put six of his capos in the river thinking they had murdered my girl!"
"I know," Linda whispered, a tear finally spilling over her lashes, tracing a shining path down her pale cheek. "I saw the news. I watched you turn into a demon on the television."
"Then why?!" Vincent roared softly, slamming his palm onto the stone mantelpiece, making the glass bottles on the desk rattle. "Why leave me?! Why keep my children from me for five goddamn years?!"
Linda looked up, her tears drying as a cold, hard truth filled her eyes.
"Because seven years ago, the night before I left," Linda said, her voice dropping into an icy whisper, "I walked into your private armory downstairs to drop off your dry cleaning. And I saw you."
Vincent froze.
"I saw you standing over a man who was begging for his life," Linda continued, stepping closer to him, poking her finger against his chest. "A man who had surrendered. You didn't just shoot him, Vincent. You executed him in cold blood while laughing with your brother. You enjoyed it."
Vincent’s jaw tightened, but he didn't deny it.
"I was twenty-two years old, Vincent," Linda choked out, her voice breaking. "I was an innocent girl who thought I was dating a wealthy businessman with a rough background. But that night, I realized I was sleeping in the bed of a monster. And two weeks later, when I took three pregnancy tests in a gas station bathroom and saw three positive lines... I made a choice."
She looked directly into his soul, unwavering and fierce.
"I vowed that my children would never grow up surrounded by guns, blood, and men who execute people for fun," Linda declared. "I chose to raise them in poverty, working three jobs, rather than let them become monsters like you."
The silence in the study was deafening.
Vincent stood motionless, the weight of her words settling into his chest like jagged glass. He looked at the woman he loved, then turned his gaze toward the door leading to the nursery where his three daughters were sleeping peacefully.
Before he could answer, the heavy double doors of the study burst open.
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Marco rushed into the room, his white shirt covered in fresh blood, holding a tactical submachine gun.
"Boss!" Marco shouted, his face pale with urgency. "Falcone’s men! They bypassed the outer gates! They're on the estate grounds!"
