Chapter 7 - The Confession in the DarkThe intercom hissed with static, followed by the sound of heavy breathing and the distant drip of water from the stone walls of the wine cellar.
“Vincent… please,” Senator DeMarco’s voice rasped through the speaker, sounding broken, exhausted, and terrified. “I’m freezing down here. My heart… I can’t take much more of this.”
“Save your breath, Arthur,” Vincent replied coldly, his hand resting near the control console. “Who else was involved in the 1998 fire? Give me a name.”
“It wasn't just a family feud,” DeMarco coughed heavily. “It was… it was a syndicate-wide vote. The Council of Five approved it. They wanted Elena’s shipping ports divided among themselves. Your own uncle, Salvatore Moretti—he’s the one who gave the final order!”
Vincent’s face went completely bloodless.
Uncle Salvatore. The man who had raised Vincent after his father’s death. The man who currently controlled the European branch of the syndicate from his fortress in Milan and was scheduled to arrive at Belladonna House tomorrow for a formal family summit.
“You’re lying,” Vincent growled, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the edge of the console. “Salvatore was in Rome when the fire happened.”
“Check the financial ledgers in the vault’s sub-compartment!” DeMarco gasped. “The wire transfers from Salvatore’s private Swiss accounts to the arsonists... they’re all there! He used me as the scapegoat! If I go down, Salvatore takes everything—!”
A sudden, sharp metallic sound echoed through the intercom—the screech of a silenced gunshot, followed by the heavy thud of a body hitting the stone floor.
“Marcus!” Vincent roared into the mic. “Report! What just happened in the cellar?”
Silence answered him for three agonizing seconds. Then Marcus’s panicked voice came through: “Boss! Someone breached the internal service tunnel! The senator is dead. We found a sniper round through the ventilation grate. The killer is heading toward the east wing rooftops!”
Vincent spun around, his eyes locking onto mine with fierce intensity.
“Stay here in the vault. Do not open the door for anyone except me or Marcus,” Vincent ordered, his hand already sliding a heavy 9mm pistol from his shoulder holster.
“No,” I said, standing up tall, clutching my mother’s journal to my chest. “I’m not hiding anymore. Salvatore is coming tomorrow, and if he’s the one who tried to murder my mother, I have a right to face him.”
Vincent stared at me for a fraction of a second, seeing not the clumsy maid who had dropped champagne on the marble floor, but the fierce, unyielding blood of the Morettis looking back at him.
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A slow, grim smile touched his lips.
“Alright, cousin,” Vincent said, cocking his pistol. “Let’s go hunt a traitor.”
