Chapter 3 - Echoes of the Past
Sloan pointed toward the mahogany desk near the fireplace. I walked over, my heavy steps sounding like funeral marches on the marble. Settled next to a stack of unread baby manuals was a black wax-sealed envelope. I picked it up, feeling the heavy parchment between my fingers. Breaking the seal, I pulled out a single photograph.
It was a photo of Willa sleeping in her crib inside this very room, taken from a high angle. Taped to the bottom of the photo was a small vial containing a dark, crimson liquid. Blood.
My phone vibrated in my pocket. I pulled it out. It was Marco, my consigliere and most trusted friend since childhood.
“Boss,” Marco’s grave voice echoed through the speaker. “We have a situation. The Bellini Syndicate just moved three shipping containers into the Brooklyn Navy Yard. Reports say Matteo is back in town. He’s calling a meeting with the rival families tonight at midnight.”
“He’s already stepped into my home, Marco,” I said quietly, looking over at Sloan, who was now holding Willa against her shoulder, rocking her rhythmically. “He knows about Willa.”
A heavy silence fell over the line. Marco knew what that meant. In our world, families were off-limits—until a war became desperate enough that all rules were burned away.
“Jesus, Vincent,” Marco breathed. “What do you want us to do? I can have forty men at the penthouse in ten minutes.”
“No,” I commanded. “No heavy guards at the penthouse. That makes it a fortress and a target. Double the perimeter discreetly. Put snipers on the adjacent rooftops. And find out who gave Matteo a key to my private elevator. There is a rat in our inner circle, Marco. Find them, and don't kill them until I have personally extracted every piece of flesh from their bone.”
I hung up and turned back to Sloan. She had stopped rocking and was watching me with a mixture of terror and profound sadness.
“You’re going back into that world,” she said softly, a statement, not a question.
“I never left it, Sloan. But I promise you, on my life, no harm will come to either of you.”
“Promises don't stop bullets, Vincent,” she whispered. “You promised me when we got married that you would transition the family into legal businesses completely. You promised me we would have a normal life. And then you pushed me away when the darkness started leaking back in.”
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I walked over to her, closing the distance between us until I could smell the sweet scent of milk and baby powder mixed with her familiar lavender perfume. Slowly, carefully, I reached out and touched Willa’s soft cheek with the tip of my calloused index finger. The baby stirred, wrapping her tiny fingers around my thumb. The sheer warmth of her little hand sent a surge of emotion through my heart that I had spent a lifetime suppressing.
“I pushed you away because I thought I was protecting you,” I confessed, my voice cracking slightly. “I thought if I divorced you, if I made you hate me, you would leave New York and be safe. I was a coward, Sloan.”
