Chapter 3 - The Ruthless Man's Reckoning
The basement level of the Bellagio was an impenetrable concrete bunker. Beneath the glamour of the crystal chandeliers and high-stakes roulette tables, this was where the real mechanics of the Moretti empire operated.
Isabella walked down the corridor in her designer red stilettos, her hips swaying, a pout on her glossed lips. She smoothed the skirt of her Chanel dress, fully expecting Vincent to comfort her after the rumors that had been circulating throughout the city.
"Vincent, darling?" she purred, pushing open the heavy mahogany doors of the private office. "Why did Marco make me come down here? It smells like damp cigars, and—"
She choked on her words.
The room was nearly pitch-black, save for a single desk lamp illuminating a scatter of documents. Vincent sat behind the steel desk, his tie undone, the top buttons of his black shirt opened, revealing hollow collarbones. Dark purple shadows hung under his hollowed-out eyes. He hadn't shaved in weeks, and his once-imposing posture was bent, like a predatory wolf starving in the dead of winter.
On the desk sat a single box from Bellucci’s Bakery.
"Vincent?" Isabella stepped back, her hand flying to her throat. "What is this?"
"Have a seat, Isabella," Vincent said. His voice was barely above a whisper, yet the sheer venom within it caused the temperature in the room to plummet.
"I... I don't want to sit. You're acting strange. Is this about Claire? Look, she's just being petty, Vincent! She's always been dramatic. She ran away because she wanted attention! She's probably at some luxury spa in Sedona waiting for you to beg—"
"Eat the cake," Vincent interrupted.
Isabella blinked, stunned. "What?"
Vincent slowly raised his head, his slate-gray eyes locking onto hers with an intensity so feral that Isabella involuntarily took two steps backward. Behind her, the door clicked shut. Marco stood against the frame, arms crossed, face like carved stone.
"I said eat the cake," Vincent repeated, tapping the cardboard box with a solitary finger. "It’s mango crêpe. The one you begged me for at midnight. The one you said was worth driving across the city to get."
"Vincent, I’m not hungry—"
"Eat it!" Vincent roared, slamming both palms down onto the desk with enough force to crack the wood finish.
Isabella shrieked, jumping in terror.
"You knew," Vincent said, his voice dropping into a lethal, terrifying hush as he stood up, circling the desk like a predator closing in on wounded prey. "You grew up with Claire in Reno. You were roommates in college. You were her maid of honor at our wedding. You knew about her allergy since you were twelve years old."
Isabella’s face drained of every ounce of color. "No... Vincent, I forgot! People forget things! I thought she outgrew it, like my cousin—"
"Your cousin doesn't have a mango allergy, Isabella," Vincent whispered, stopping just inches from her trembling face. "I had Marco check. Your cousin lives in Miami and eats mango salad every Sunday."
A cold bead of sweat trickled down Isabella’s contour-painted cheek. "Vincent... please... she was stealing you from me! You were mine first! Before you made all this money, you looked at me at the country club! Then she came along with her sweet smile and her modest little dresses, and you forgot I existed!"
Vincent closed his eyes, disgust twisting his features. "She was carrying my child."
Isabella froze, her jaw dropping open.
"She was carrying my heir," Vincent breathed, his voice breaking with sheer anguish. "And while she was losing our baby alone in a clinical ward, you were feeding her poison. You smiled while she choked, Isabella. You laughed while she died inside."
"Vincent, I didn't know she was pregnant! I swear on my life, I didn't know!" Isabella sobbed, dropping to her knees, clutching at his trousers. "Please, Vincent, forgive me! I love you! I've always loved you!"
Vincent looked down at her with nothing but unadulterated revulsion. He kicked her hands away from his pants as if she were a sewer rat.
"Marco," Vincent commanded coldly.
"Yes, sir."
"Revoke her penthouse lease. Freeze the accounts I opened in her name. Call the gaming commission and ensure she is blacklisted from every casino, hotel, and resort in this state. If I ever see her face within five miles of the Strip again, make sure she leaves Nevada in a wooden crate."
"Understood, boss."
Isabella wailed, clawing at the carpet as Marco dragged her backward toward the corridor. "Vincent! You can't do this to me! Vincent!"
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The heavy door slammed shut.
Vincent fell back against the desk, running trembling hands through his unkempt hair. Punishing Isabella did not bring Claire back. It did not resurrect the child he had never held. It was nothing more than ashes in an empty furnace.
