Chapter 2 - The Taste of Glass
For five long seconds, the dining room felt like an open grave.
Marcus’s hand twitched away from Camille’s arm, but he didn't rise immediately. A flush of pink crept above his starched collar. He looked at the wheelchair, then at Nora standing tall behind it, and finally into Vincent’s cold, unblinking eyes.
“Vincent,” Marcus stammered, recovering his mask with a rehearsed smile. “We thought... Camille said you were out cold for the night. We were just running through the quarterly tallies so you wouldn't have to stress yourself.”
“Camille is an interior decorator with a trust fund,” Vincent said, his voice flat and lethal. Nora moved with deliberate calm, pushing the chair straight toward the head of the table. Every captain—men who had butchered rival crews in warehouse basements—instinctively leaned back in their chairs. “She doesn't run manifests. And neither do you, Marcus. Not while my lungs take in air.”
Camille stood up so abruptly her chair scraped the parquet floor. “Vincent, stop this childish display! Look at yourself. You shouldn't be down here without your medical team. You’re making everyone uncomfortable.”
Vincent halted his chair three feet from Marcus. He didn't look at Camille. He ignored her entirely, treating her like furniture, which made her jaw twitch in fury.
“Get out of my chair, Marcus,” Vincent said.
Marcus hesitated. Vincent caught the micro-expression: a darting of the eyes toward Eddie Cole and Samuel Pike, testing the water, wondering if the time had come to simply draw a weapon and finish the ambush that the hitmen outside the restaurant had botched eight months ago.
Eddie looked down at his napkin. Pike took a sudden, deep interest in his water glass.
They were hyenas, yes. But the lion was looking directly down their throats, and they weren't certain if the teeth were really gone.
Marcus slowly stood up, raising his hands in mock surrender. “Sure, boss. Whatever you want. Doc said keeping your blood pressure down was priority number one.”
“Nora,” Vincent said.
“Yes, Mr. Bellori?”
“Take the captain’s chair out of the room. It’s dirty.”
A gasp slipped from Camille’s lips. Nora didn't hesitate for a heartbeat. She walked forward, seized the heavy, hand-carved mahogany throne Marcus had just vacated, and dragged it across the floorboards without an ounce of struggle, hauling it cleanly out into the service corridor. When she returned, she pushed Vincent’s wheelchair into the exact spot at the head of the table.
Vincent placed both elbows on the white linen. He leaned forward, closing the distance between himself and Marcus, who was now forced to stand awkwardly like a chastised schoolboy.
“Now,” Vincent said. “Tell me about the shipments coming through Pier 42. The ones Marcus Dane signed for under a shell company called Apex Logistics.”
Marcus paled. The color completely drained from his cheeks. “How did you—”
“You think because my legs don’t work, my ears went deaf?” Vincent sneered. In truth, he had only seen the Apex invoice by pure chance two days ago on Camille’s vanity desk—Nora had pointed it out while dusting, asking innocently why a shipping broker was billing his fiancée for offshore storage. But Marcus didn’t know that. Marcus thought Vincent was omniscient again.
“It was just a hedge, Vincent,” Marcus lied, his throat bobbing. “To protect the family’s downside while you recovered.”
“You don't hedge my money,” Vincent said. He reached for Marcus’s full tumbler of single-malt bourbon. Vincent took a slow sip. Then, holding the heavy crystal glass out over the edge of the table, he opened his fingers.
The glass shattered into twenty jagged fragments against the marble floor, splashing liquor across Marcus’s imported Italian leather loafers.
“Meeting adjourned,” Vincent said. “Every ledger. Every account book. In my study by seven tomorrow morning. If they aren't on my desk, Pike will take your territory. Isn't that right, Pike?”
Samuel Pike snapped his head up, his eyes flashing with raw, opportunistic hunger. “Whatever you say, Don Bellori.”
One by one, the captains scrambled out of the room, mumbling apologies and hasty bows, leaving only Camille and Marcus standing amid the broken crystal.
Camille turned on Nora, her face distorted by manicured rage. “You. Housekeeper. Clean this up. Now. And then pack your bags. You’re fired for bringing him down here.”
Nora didn't move. She stood with her chin raised, hands folded neatly in front of her gray uniform.
Vincent didn't raise his voice. He simply turned his gaze to Camille. “She answers only to me. Touch her employment, Camille, and I will freeze every credit line carrying your father’s failing gallery before the banks open at nine.”
Camille’s eyes flashed with venom. “You bastard. You think you’re terrifying? You’re a cripple in a rolling box! You think Marcus and the others are scared of you? They pity you! We all pity you!”
She spun on her heel and stormed out, her stilettos clacking furiously against the floorboards. Marcus lingered for a second, his eyes burning with silent, murderous promises, before turning to follow her into the shadows of the mansion.
Silence flooded back into the dining room.
Vincent let out a breath he felt he had been holding for eight months. The adrenaline suddenly drained from his system, leaving his neck and shoulders throbbing with agonizing tension. His hands began to shake—a violent neurological tremor in his fingers.
He desperately tried to tuck them beneath the table before she could see.
A warm, steady hand caught his right wrist.
Nora didn't look down with pity. She simply took his hand, applying firm, practiced pressure along the tendon of his forearm, grounding the spasms exactly the way she had learned to do for her brother.
“Your form was good,” she said quietly, her voice steady in the quiet room. “A bit theatrical with the bourbon glass, but effective.”
May you like
Vincent looked at her hand resting against his flesh. His throat felt dry. “They’ll try to kill me now. Marcus won't wait.”
“Then we’d better make sure you can pull a trigger faster than he can,” Nora replied, not letting go of his hand. “Now let’s get you back upstairs. We have work to do.”
