Chapter 8 - The Price of Brotherhood
Inside the sprawling mahogany study, the massive stone fireplace cast flickering amber shadows across the rows of leather-bound law books and family portraits.
Victor Vance sat behind the antique walnut desk that had belonged to Carmine Capello for thirty years.
He was swirling a glass of twenty-five-year-old single malt whiskey, his tailored charcoal suit immaculate, not a single hair out of place.
Seated in the high-backed leather armchair opposite the desk was Sofia Capello.
She looked pale, her dark hair pulled back into a simple ponytail, her hands trembling slightly as she clutched a leather-bound folder containing the family trust transfer documents.
“You don’t have to make this difficult, Sofia,” Victor said, his voice dripping with an oily, paternal warmth that made Lorenzo’s blood run cold out in the hallway.
“Enzo made his choices.”
“The Commission voted to move the syndicate in a modern, corporate direction.”
“If you sign these papers tonight, you retain forty percent of the legitimate real estate holdings in Florida and Arizona.”
“You can live out your life as a very wealthy, very comfortable young woman in Europe.”
Sofia stared at the fountain pen resting on top of the documents, her chin held high with the stubborn defiance characteristic of the Capello bloodline.
“And if I don't sign?” she asked, her voice shaking slightly but holding firm.
Victor sighed softly, taking a slow sip of his whiskey before setting the crystal glass down on the desk with a sharp click.
“Then I have to explain to the board why your tragic heart condition finally caught up with you, just like your poor father.”
“You poisoned him, Victor,” Sofia whispered, her eyes flashing with pure hatred.
“I heard him coughing up blood in this exact room the night before he died.”
Victor’s smooth expression didn't change by a single micro-expression, but his eyes grew cold and hard like chips of obsidian.
“Your father was a dinosaur, Sofia.”
“He built an empire on neighborhood extortion and dock smuggling while the real world was moving toward government-backed defense contracts and digital laundering.”
“He had to be retired.”
Out in the hallway, Chloe looked at Lorenzo.
The vein in Lorenzo’s temple was throbbing violently, his fingers tightening around the grip of his Glock until his knuckles turned chalk-white.
He didn’t wait for a signal.
With a brutal kick of his boot, Lorenzo shattered the heavy brass latch of the double doors, sending them crashing inward against the interior walls.
Victor Vance’s head snapped toward the doorway, his smooth facade cracking instantly as his eyes locked onto the man he had left bleeding on the floor of The Sovereign three hours ago.
“Enzo,” Victor breathed, his hand darting instinctively toward the shoulder holster beneath his jacket.
Lorenzo raised his Glock with absolute, unhesitating calm.
“Don’t even think about it, Victor,” Lorenzo said, his voice dropping into a terrifying, icy stillness that echoed off the stone walls of the study.
Sofia shrieked in shock and relief, leaping out of her chair and running toward her brother before Chloe stepped into the doorway and caught her by the arm, pulling her safely out of the line of fire.
“Get down, Sofia,” Chloe commanded gently, guiding the trembling girl behind the heavy mahogany bookcase.
Victor stared at Lorenzo, his hands hovering inches from his weapon as he realized his hit squad had failed entirely.
“You’re a hard man to kill, brother,” Victor muttered, a forced, nervous smile touching the corners of his mouth.
“I guess we both learned from the old man.”
“You didn’t learn how to finish a job,” Lorenzo said, stepping slowly across the threshold, his eyes locked onto Victor’s chest.
“You left me with a souvenir and a very dangerous friend.”
Victor’s eyes flicked past Lorenzo to catch sight of Chloe standing in the doorway with an MP5 slung across her chest.
Recognition dawned slowly in Victor’s eyes, followed by a sudden, chilling flash of understanding.
“The waitress,” Victor whispered, his jaw slackening.
May you like
“She’s not a waitress, Victor,” Lorenzo said, stopping ten feet from the desk.
“She’s the ghost you left behind in Mosul.”
