Chapter 2 - The Second PhoneThe music stopped with a sharp, discordant screech of horsehair against steel as the quartet finished the movement. Before the scattered applause could die down, Edmund released Vivien just enough to step backward, his hand sliding inside his jacket not for a weapon, but to adjust his cuffs.
Across the room, Carmine Vale froze.
The realization that Edmund Costa was looking directly at him—looking past the flowers, past the glittering ice sculptures, past the throng of terrified elite—hit Carmine like a physical blow. The amber whiskey splashed over the rim of his glass as his arm jerked.
"He's running," Vivien noted, her eyes sharp as she watched Carmine pivot toward the heavy oak side doors leading to the cathedral's administrative vestry.
"Let him try," Edmund said.
Before Carmine could take three steps toward the exit, Tommy Mercer stepped out from the shadows of the archway, blocking the corridor with quiet, terrifying finality. Two of Tommy’s enforcers materialized behind Carmine, their movements fluid, silent, and completely invisible to the surrounding guests who were busy whispering about the broken window.
"Mr. Vale," Tommy’s voice carried smoothly over the murmurs of the crowd. "The bride and groom request a private word in the vestry. Do try not to make a scene; it ruins the aesthetic."
Carmine’s face turned the color of curdled milk. He looked frantically toward the main doors, then toward the corner where his own guards stood frozen, paralyzed by the sudden shift in momentum.
"I need air," Carmine choked out, his voice cracking. "I'm feeling faint."
"The air in the vestry is exceptional," Tommy replied, his hand resting casually on Carmine’s elbow—a gesture that looked like polite assistance to any distant observer, but forced Carmine’s arm up behind his back in a silent, agonizing lock. "Walk."
Edmund offered his arm to Vivien. She stared at him for a long moment, weighing the terrifying weight of the gold band on her finger against the cold machinery of her new life. Without a word, she slid her hand through his elbow.
"Lead the way, husband," she said softly.
The vestry was a cavernous, stone-walled room smelling of old beeswax, holy water, and centuries of dust. Stained glass windows cast fractured crimson and blue light across a massive oak table where ancient parish ledgers lay open.
Carmine was shoved gently into a high-backed wooden chair. He was shaking now, sweat beading heavily on his upper lip as he clutched the prepaid phone in his fist like a lifeline.
Edmund closed the heavy oak door behind them, locking it with a sharp, final click.
"You look nervous, Carmine," Edmund said, walking slowly toward the table. He didn't pull a gun. He didn't raise his voice. He simply stood above the seated man, casting a long, skeletal shadow across the desk. "Usually, you hold your liquor better."
"I don't know what you're talking about," Carmine spat, his eyes darting toward Vivien as if her presence was an insult. "You bring me in here like a common criminal over a stray bullet? Some crackhead on the roof took a potshot at you! It happens in this city every damn day!"
"A professional setup on the bank roof," Edmund mused, resting both palms flat on the wood. "Tripod-mounted rifle. Windage calculated. Clear line of sight through an architectural blind spot that only three men in this city knew about."
Edmund paused, letting the silence stretch until it became unbearable.
"You, me, and Dominic Hale."
"Dominic's eighty-one!" Carmine screamed, spraying spittle across the polished oak. "The man eats pasta and shits himself! You think he's climbing a fucking ladder?"
"No," Edmund replied softly. "I think you rented a ladder for him."
Vivien stepped forward, breaking the silence that hung heavy in the room. She walked right up to Carmine, her silk gown whispering against the stone floor, and stared down at the trembling fist clutching the burner phone.
"Open your hand, Mr. Vale," she said, her voice entirely devoid of fear.
Carmine glared at her, his face flushing dark purple. "I don't take orders from a traded whore."
The sound that followed wasn't a slap. It was the sickening crunch of Edmund’s heavy signet ring connecting with the bridge of Carmine’s nose.
Carmine shrieked, clutching his face as blood gushed between his fingers, staining his pristine white dress shirt a violent crimson.
"She has a name," Edmund said, his voice dropping an octave, cold as winter ice. "And she asked you a question."
Vivien didn't flinch at the violence. She reached down, her fingers prying Carmine’s bloody grip apart with surprising strength, and snatched the prepaid phone from his palm.
The screen was lit. A draft message stared back at them: Target missed. Cleanup initiated.
May you like
Vivien turned the screen toward Edmund.
"Looks like your cleanup crew just got a promotion," she said.
