Chapter 8 - The Price of a Life
Three months later.
The rain in New York City fell softly, washing the pristine pavement of Fifth Avenue.
Celia Jace stood on the balcony of a penthouse apartment overlooking Central Park—not the one on Central Park South where her nightmare began, but a quiet, sunlit loft in Tribeca. On the kitchen counter behind her, a sleek, state-of-the-art espresso machine hissed as it brewed a fresh double shot.
Her mother was downstairs in the garden, laughing softly as she tended to a row of blooming hydrangeas, her health fully restored by the finest medical treatment money could buy.
The elevator chimed.
Vincent stepped into the loft, wearing a simple black turtleneck and trousers, looking less like a mafia kingpin and more like a man finally at peace. He walked out onto the balcony, holding two steaming mugs of coffee, and handed one to Celia.
“The Federal Grand Jury handed down its final indictments this morning,” Vincent said softly, leaning against the railing beside her. “Marcus, Eleanor, and Simon are facing multiple consecutive life sentences without parole. The Chicago syndicate has dissolved into dust.”
Celia took a sip of her coffee, a small, genuine smile playing on her lips. “And you? Are you still the king of New York?”
“I’m just a guy who owns a lot of real estate,” Vincent chuckled, turning his dark eyes toward her. “And a man who owes everything he loves to a stubborn waitress from Astoria who stopped in an alley on a rainy night.”
Celia looked down at her hands—the same hands that had pressed against Leo’s head wound in the mud three months ago.
“You know, I tried to go back to Mel’s Diner last week,” Celia confessed, her eyes sparkling with amusement. “Just to see if I could pick up a shift for old time’s sake.”
Vincent raised an eyebrow. “And?”
“The manager took one look at me, burst into tears, handed me a permanent severance check for five hundred thousand dollars, and begged me never to step foot in his restaurant again.”
May you like
Vincent threw his head back and laughed—a rich, genuine sound that chased away the last lingering shadows of the past.
“Good,” Vincent said, wrapping an arm gently around her shoulders as the morning sun finally broke through the New York clouds. “Because you’re way overqualified for diner shifts anyway.”
