Chapter 2 - Shadows of the Past
The crimson shards of crystal glass lay scattered across the polished oak flooring, reflecting the dim amber glow of the restaurant's chandeliers. Blood began to bead in the creases of Vincent’s palm, a slow, dark trail slipping unnoticed past his calloused lifeline. He didn’t feel the pain. His nervous system was entirely consumed by a roaring echo that had been buried beneath fifteen years of wealth, power, and calculated ruthlessness.
Marco.
The name felt foreign on his tongue, yet heavier than the iron safe sitting in his private basement three floors down. Tony Rini exchanged a tense glance with the capos seated at the adjacent tables. Their hands remained subtly poised near their holsters, uncertain whether this shivering child was an assassin's distraction, a freak anomaly, or the harbinger of a war they thought had been settled in blood a decade and a half ago.
"Tony," Vincent rasped, his voice sounding like gravel grinding beneath heavy truck tires. "Clear the room. Everyone. Now."
"Boss—" Tony started to protest, eyeing the door and the perimeter.
"Every single one of them, Tony. Out!" Vincent roared, the sudden violence in his tone snapping the restaurant into an immediate, frantic motion. Chairs scraped against the floorboards as fifty hardened enforcers, terrified associates, and terrified waitstaff stampeded toward the exits, leaving behind half-eaten meals and spilled wine. Within seconds, the grand dining hall was entirely empty, save for the massive mahogany bar, Vincent, Tony, and the small girl standing by the doorway.
Vincent walked toward her slowly, dragging his boots across the carpet as if moving through deep water. He knelt down until his eyes were level with hers. The proximity only intensified the shock. Up close, Sophia had the exact tilt of the chin, the same stubborn set of the jaw that Marco used to wear whenever he refused to back down from a bad bet or a hopeless fight.
"Sophia," Vincent said, his voice softening into something raw and unrecognizable. "Where is your father? Where is Marco?"
The girl stepped back instinctively, her small shoulders drawing up to her ears. "He's... he's hurt. That's why I came out. He told me to stay in the car, but he didn't wake up when I shook him. He's been sleeping for a long time, Mr. Vincent."
Vincent froze. Mr. Vincent. He had never told her his name. He had only been introduced as the man standing in front of her. A chill ran down his spine. "You know who I am?"
"Daddy has a picture of you," Sophia whispered, her voice trembling as tears finally threatened to spill over her long lashes. "He looks at it when he thinks I'm sleeping. He said if anything ever happened to him, and I needed help, I should find the man with the scar on his knuckle and tell him that family never dies."
Vincent looked down at his left hand. The jagged scar across his knuckle—a souvenir from a knife fight in the docks of Brooklyn when they were twenty-one. Marco had patched him up with dirty thread and cheap whiskey while they laughed like maniacs in the pouring rain.
"Take me to him," Vincent commanded, standing up abruptly and looking at Tony. "Get the SUV. Bring the medical kit from the back, and call Dr. Vance. Tell him to meet us at the safehouse on 4th Street."
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"Boss, it could be a trap," Tony warned, stepping forward protectively. "Fifteen years is a long time. People change, situations change. Rivals know about your history with Marco. This could be an elaborate bait—"
"Did you hear what I said, Tony?" Vincent turned, his eyes blazing with a terrifying intensity that made his most trusted lieutenant step back. "If it's a trap, I'll walk into it willingly. But if it's him... if my brother is alive... I will burn this city to the ground to protect him. Move!"
