Chapter 8 - A NEW CROWN
Z
Panic is a contagious disease, and the moment the crowd recognized Vincent Costanza standing alive and furious at the foot of the stage, the infection spread like wildfire. The politicians and judges scrambled backward, abandoning their expensive drinks and their newly sworn loyalties, desperate to avoid the inevitable crossfire. The capos—the men who had betrayed Vincent less than twenty-four hours ago—stood frozen in absolute terror, caught between the old king and the usurper.
"Kill him!" Julian shrieked, his charismatic facade entirely destroyed, replaced by the panicked scream of a cornered rat. He pointed frantically at his brother. "Shoot him! Shoot them both!"
The guards surrounding the stage moved to raise their weapons, but I was already in motion. The emerald gown flowed around me as I stepped out from Vincent's shadow, becoming the deadliest thing in the room. I didn't fire wildly; I fired with the cold, mechanical precision my father had drilled into me. Two guards at the edge of the stage dropped before their fingers even touched their triggers. A third managed to squeeze off a wild shot that shattered a mirror behind me, but I spun on my heel, putting a bullet precisely through his center mass.
"Nobody moves!" Vincent roared, drawing the concealed blade from his watch, a terrifying, jagged piece of steel. The sheer, overwhelming dominance in his voice anchored the remaining capos to the floor. They knew Vincent. They knew what happened to men who defied him openly.
Julian, realizing his men were either dead or terrified, drew a small revolver from his tuxedo jacket. But his hands were shaking. He was a master manipulator, a ghost who orchestrated violence from the shadows, but in a face-to-face confrontation with his little brother, he was a coward.
Vincent didn't even flinch. He walked slowly up the short steps to the stage, ignoring the gun pointed directly at his chest. The blood from his freshly torn stitches was beginning to seep through his black tuxedo shirt, but he looked completely immune to the pain. He looked like an apex predator cornering a wounded deer.
"You should have stayed dead, Julian," Vincent said, his voice dropping to a low, lethal murmur that only the front row could hear. "You were a legend when you were a ghost. But in the flesh? You're just a disappointment."
Julian’s finger tightened on the trigger, his eyes wide with a manic desperation. "I am the rightful heir! I built this empire while you were still breaking kneecaps in the streets! I deserve this city!"
He fired.
The loud bang echoed through the grand ballroom, causing several guests to scream. But Julian’s aim was rushed, panicked. The bullet grazed Vincent’s arm, tearing through the expensive fabric but missing the bone entirely. Vincent didn't even break his stride. He closed the distance in two massive, terrifying steps.
Before Julian could cock the hammer for a second shot, Vincent's left hand shot out, gripping his brother's wrist with bone-crushing force. Julian screamed as the revolver clattered to the stage floor. With a swift, brutal motion, Vincent drove the concealed blade deep into Julian’s abdomen.
The entire ballroom gasped. Julian gasped, his eyes widening in pure shock, looking down at the blood rapidly staining his pristine white shirt. Vincent pulled the blade out and leaned in close, wrapping his arm around his dying brother in a morbid, violent embrace, holding him up so the crowd could see.
"Boston doesn't belong to ghosts," Vincent whispered into Julian’s ear, his voice carrying the finality of a judge passing sentence. "It belongs to the monsters who are willing to get their hands dirty."
He let go, and Julian Costanza crumbled to the stage floor, his lifeless eyes staring up at the gilded ceiling. The usurper was dead. The brief, chaotic rebellion was over.
Vincent slowly turned to face the crowd, wiping his bloody blade on a white silk handkerchief. He looked at the terrified politicians, the trembling capos, the corrupt judges who had come to sell him out. "If anyone else would like to claim the throne," Vincent announced, his voice echoing in the dead silence, "the stage is open."
No one moved. No one breathed. Slowly, deliberately, old man Moretti, the capo who had orchestrated the betrayal, dropped to his knees. One by one, the rest of the room followed suit, the entire high society of Boston’s underworld bowing their heads in complete, terrified submission.
Vincent looked down at them, his chest heaving, his dark eyes burning with undisputed power. Then, he looked at me. I was standing amidst the bodies of the guards, the smoking pistols still in my hands, the emerald dress stained with gunpowder and blood. I wasn't hiding anymore. I wasn't invisible.
He walked to the edge of the stage, extending a blood-stained hand toward me. The gesture wasn't an order; it was an invitation.
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I holstered my weapons, taking his hand, and stepped up onto the stage beside him. I looked out over the sea of bowed heads, feeling the intoxicating, dangerous thrill of absolute power. My father had taught me to clean up the messes of powerful men, to stay in the shadows and survive. But as I stood beside the bleeding king of Boston, I realized I was done surviving.
From now on, I was going to be the one making the mess.
