Chapter 1 - The Weight of an Empty Chair
“You know suits?” Vincent asked, his voice rough around the edges like gravel under an expensive tire.
Nora didn’t flinch. She pulled the jet-black Brioni jacket from the cedar-lined rack, checking the stitching with a critical eye before draping it carefully across her arm. “Before my brother was crushed under four tons of concrete, I spent four years managing a high-end dry cleaner on Michigan Avenue. I know tailored seams, Mr. Bellori. And I know a dead man’s wardrobe when I see one. You’ve been wearing charcoal loungewear like you’re waiting for someone to measure you for a pine box.”
Vincent stared at her. A muscle ticked in his jaw. For eight months, doctors, specialists, and Camille had spoken to him in hushed, velvet-padded whispers—the sickening tone reserved for terminally ill pedigree dogs. Nora Bennett spoke to him as though he were just another stubborn man being an idiot.
“Lay it on the bed,” Vincent commanded.
She obeyed without a word, stepping aside. She didn’t hover. She didn’t reach out with that nauseating reflex Camille always had—extending two manicured fingers to steady his elbow as if he were made of cheap porcelain. When Vincent heaved his upper body forward, sliding from the leather upholstery of his wheelchair onto the edge of the mattress, the sheer strain sent sweat beading along his forehead. His lower back screamed with cold fire, but his arms, carved from twenty years of bare-knuckle violence and weight rooms, took the brunt of his dead weight.
He buttoned the crisp white cotton shirt himself. When his trembling fingers fumbled at the throat latch, he paused, waiting for her to step in and humiliate him with assistance.
Nora merely crossed her arms and leaned against the doorframe. “Top button’s crooked. Collar’s stiff. You look like you’re going to a wake, not an execution.”
“Give it time,” Vincent muttered.
He reached for the silk tie. Black on black. He slid into the tailored jacket. The shoulders settled over his frame like armor. Looking in the mirror, he was no longer an invalid hiding beneath a blanket. Above the waist, he was still Vincent Bellori: sharp cheekbones, slate-gray eyes that had made hardened district attorneys swallow their tongues, and shoulders broad enough to cast a shadow across a city block.
Below the waist, his slacks fell over useless limbs. But the tailored wool hid the wasted muscle.
“Bring the chair,” he said quietly.
Nora wheeled it over. She locked the brakes with a swift tap of her sneaker. Vincent gripped the armrests, exhaled through his teeth, and swung his torso back into place. His breathing was heavy, but his spine was straight.
Downstairs, another burst of laughter echoed up the spiraling marble staircase. Marcus Dane’s booming baritone was loud, boasting about import manifests at the docks.
“The elevators are on the north wing,” Vincent said.
“No,” Nora answered smoothly, stepping behind the chair. “The north elevator opens near the pantry. If you slide in through the service door, you’re an invalid creeping around his own corridors. We take the south foyer elevator. It puts you at the head of the dining room archway.”
Vincent glanced back over his shoulder. “You’ve thought about this.”
“I think about survival eight hours a day, Mr. Bellori. Yours and mine.” Her hands rested firmly on the push bars. Her palms were calloused, warm, and utterly steady. “Now take a breath. And remember who bought that house.”
The metal elevator groaned as it descended. Inside the cage, Vincent adjusted the French cuffs of his sleeves. The scent of roasted prime rib, aged bourbon, and expensive cigars drifted through the grille.
When the elevator doors parted, the main hall was illuminated by crystal chandeliers. Ahead lay the formal dining room. The massive mahogany doors were half open.
Vincent caught Camille’s voice first, dripping with that syrupy, patronizing cadence she saved for socialites. “Marcus has been such an incredible rock. Honestly, without him stepping into the leadership void, I don’t know how the estate would survive. Vincent’s mind is just... so tired. The neuro-trauma, you understand.”
“Understood perfectly, darling,” Marcus’s voice answered. A clink of crystal. “Vincent gave us twenty good years. Now it’s time he gets his rest. The docks run smoother without an old-school tyrant second-guessing modern logistics.”
“Push,” Vincent whispered.
Nora did not hesitate. She placed her boots against the marble and rolled the heavy leather chair through the threshold, letting the heavy doors slam against the wall with the force of a gunshot.
The entire dining room froze.
Seven captains were seated around the thirty-foot table. Marcus Dane sat at the head—in Vincent’s chair. Camille was to his right, wearing an emerald backless dress, her fingers resting lightly on Marcus’s forearm.
The clatter of dropped silver forks echoed like falling shell casings.
May you like
Vincent sat upright in the center of the double doors. The black Brioni jacket caught the light. His eyes, devoid of mercy, swept across the men who had sworn blood oaths on his mother’s Bible.
“Marcus,” Vincent said. The voice wasn’t loud, but it cut through the room like a piano wire. “You seem to have forgotten the seating arrangement in my house.”
