Chapter 9 - THE AFTERMATH OF BLOOD AND SILK
Z
The morning sun did not dare shine on the Costanza estate. Instead, Boston was blanketed in a heavy, oppressive fog that rolled off the harbor, thick and grey, mirroring the cold reality of what we had done. The grand ballroom of the Copley Hotel felt like a lifetime ago, though it had only been eight hours since I stood on that stage, my emerald gown soaked in the blood of Vincent’s brother. We had left the hotel not as fugitives, but as absolute conquerors. The police, bought and paid for by the syndicate’s deep pockets, had already classified the massacre as an "unfortunate gang-related tragedy" with no witnesses willing to testify. When you hold the leash to the city’s throat, the law barks only when you tell it to.
I stood in the master bathroom of Vincent’s primary estate, staring at my reflection in the gilded mirror. I had scrubbed my skin until it was raw, watching the crimson water spiral down the marble drain, but I still felt the phantom weight of the twin SIG Sauers in my hands. I was wearing a black silk robe that belonged to Vincent, a stark contrast to the rough cotton maid’s uniform I had worn for three years. The quiet, invisible girl who polished the baseboards was dead. In her place stood a woman with ice in her veins, an apex predator who had finally embraced the violent legacy her father had left her in the dust of Mexico.
The heavy oak door of the bedroom creaked open, and I stepped out, tying the robe tighter around my waist. Vincent was sitting on the edge of the massive king-sized bed, shirtless, his chest a patchwork of bruises and fresh, stark white bandages. His personal underground surgeon, a terrified man named Dr. Aris, had spent three hours repairing the damage the bullet had done to Vincent’s shoulder, stitching up the torn muscle and pumping him full of high-grade antibiotics. Despite the exhaustion carving deep lines into his face, Vincent’s eyes were sharp, calculating, completely devoid of weakness.
"You should be resting," I said, walking over to the mahogany nightstand to pour him a glass of water.
Vincent scoffed softly, a dark, rumbling sound that caught in his throat. "Rest is a luxury for men who don't wear a crown, Micah. Julian is dead, but the vacuum he left behind is already sucking the air out of the room. The capos who bowed to me last night did so out of fear, not loyalty. Fear has a shelf life."
I handed him the glass, my fingers brushing against his cold knuckles. "Moretti was the first to bend the knee. But he was also the one who helped Julian orchestrate the coup. Why did you let him walk out of that ballroom alive?"
Vincent took a slow sip of the water, his dark eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that made the breath catch in my chest. "Because executing Moretti in front of the others would have made me look paranoid. I need them to believe I am merciful, that I am willing to forgive the straying sheep. But more importantly, I let Moretti live because he is a coward. And cowards always run back to their true masters when they get scared."
"You think Julian wasn't acting alone," I realized, the puzzle pieces clicking together in my mind. "You think he had outside backing."
"Julian was charismatic, but he was bankrupt," Vincent explained, setting the glass down and leaning back against the pillows, wincing slightly as the stitches pulled. "He spent five years in hiding. You don't buy an army of professional mercenaries and bribe half the city's politicians with pocket change. Someone funded his resurrection. Someone who wanted me dead and Julian on a leash."
"Who?" I asked, though I already felt the cold dread pooling in my stomach.
"The Five Families," Vincent murmured, the name hanging in the air like a death sentence. "New York. They’ve been trying to get their claws into the Boston ports for a decade. I refused to play ball. Julian must have promised them the keys to the kingdom."
I walked over to the massive bay window, looking out at the sprawling, fog-drenched estate. For three years, I had kept the floors of this mansion spotless. Now, I was standing at the top of the empire, staring down an impending war with the most powerful syndicate on the East Coast.
"So, what's our move, Boss?" I asked, turning back to him, the title slipping from my lips with a new, dark reverence.
May you like
Vincent looked at me, taking in the black silk robe, the wet hair, the undeniable shift in my posture. I was no longer the help. I was his right hand.
"We don't wait for New York to knock," Vincent said, a ruthless smile playing on his lips. "We send them a message they can't ignore. Get dressed, Micah. We have a rat to catch."
