Chapter 3 - Blood on the Polished Marble
They crawled through a narrow ventilation shaft that bypassed the main kitchen.
The smell of roasted lamb and fresh rosemary still lingered in the ductwork.
The dinner Vincent had never eaten was sitting cold on the marble counters below.
Through the aluminum louvers, Vincent watched Marcus pacing the kitchen tiles.
Marcus was twenty-eight years old, dressed in a tailored suit that mirrored Vincent’s own style.
He had Vincent’s high cheekbones and dark, deep-set eyes.
He had the Torino blood, but none of the patience.
Standing across the island from him was Tony Bellini.
Tony looked older than sixty, his gray hair trimmed tight against his scalp.
He held a tablet displaying live security feeds from every corridor of the estate.
"Eddie isn't answering his radio," Marcus snapped, running a hand through his hair.
"Eddie is an idiot who probably cornered a maid in the laundry," Tony said calmly.
"The main gate is locked."
"The street is clear."
"Vincent hasn't arrived yet."
"He should have been here an hour ago, Tony!"
"Traffic from the docks is backed up on the expressway."
"Relax, Marcus."
"When the car pulls through the gate, we drop him before he opens the door."
Vincent watched his nephew from six feet above the man’s head.
He felt no rage now.
The initial shock had burned away, leaving behind a cold, calculating clarity.
In this life, sentimentality was a disease that killed faster than poison.
Elena tapped his shoulder from behind, pointing down the duct toward the north junction.
They backed out slowly, their knees pressing against the rivets of the sheet metal.
They dropped down into the service laundry room through a ceiling panel.
A wicker basket full of white linen broke their fall.
Vincent stood up, checking the action on Eddie’s confiscated pistol.
Eight rounds in the magazine.
One in the chamber.
It was not enough to fight an army, but it was enough to clear a hallway.
Elena moved to the linen press and retrieved a heavy iron ring holding three antique keys.
"These belong to the south wing," Vincent observed.
"They belong to the sub-basement beneath the wine racks," she corrected.
"The original foundations of the house from 1912."
They slipped through the laundry door into the service corridor.
The walls here were exposed brick, free of the gold leaf and oil paintings of the upper floors.
Around the corner, two guards were talking in low, anxious voices.
"I don't like this," one said.
"Vincent has friends in the Five Families."
"If they find out Marcus did this—"
"They won't find out," the other replied.
"Tony is telling the commission that the Colombians hit the house."
"The story is already written."
Vincent stepped around the corner before Elena could signal him.
He did not hesitate.
He fired twice through the fabric of his coat, the muffled pops barely louder than a handclap.
Both men dropped instantly, their weapons clattering against the concrete.
Vincent caught the second man before he hit the ground, dragging him out of the line of sight.
Elena stripped the extra magazines from their tactical vests with efficient, cold precision.
She handed three clips to Vincent.
"You still have the aim," she whispered.
"I haven't spent thirty years behind a desk, Elena."
They moved down the stone stairs that led to the private cellar.
This was where Vincent kept his rare vintages, thousands of bottles dating back to the late nineteenth century.
The air grew damp, thick with the smell of wet limestone and aging oak barrels.
At the far end of the long corridor, an iron gate stood open.
Bright halogen work lights had been strung across the arched ceiling.
The stone floor had been cleared.
Sitting in the center of the room was the heavy steel strongbox from Vincent’s private study.
It was four feet high, reinforced with three-inch titanium plates.
The electronic keypad had been torn away, exposing a mass of colored wires.
Marcus had hired a safecracker to breach the exterior housing.
A young man with thick glasses was kneeling in front of the lock, sweating profusely into his shirt.
Behind him stood Tony Bellini’s younger brother, Paul.
Paul had an open can of soda in one hand and a revolver resting on an oak barrel.
"How much longer?" Paul asked, kicking the safecracker’s boot.
"The mechanical tumblers are hardened against drills," the technician stammered.
"It takes time."
"You have five minutes before Marcus comes down here and puts a hole in your skull."
Elena leaned against the stone archway beside Vincent.
"The black ledger is inside that box," she whispered.
"I know," Vincent said.
"Along with my grandfather's signet ring and three million in bearer bonds."
"Marcus doesn't care about the bonds."
"He wants the list of shell companies that Samuel set up in Panama."
Vincent looked at her sharply.
"How do you know about Panama?"
"Because the account numbers were written on the page my father tore out."
"The page you claim is safe."
Elena met his gaze directly.
"The page that is currently inside a lawyer’s office downtown, set to be mailed to the Attorney General if I don't check in every forty-eight hours."
Vincent felt a thin, grim smile touch the corners of his mouth.
"Samuel truly was your father."
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"He taught me never to hold a gun unless the other person has already lost their bullets."
"Then let's take back the box," Vincent said.
