Chapter 15 - Confession in Blood
Salvatore coughed, a streak of blood leaking from the corner of his mouth, but a harsh, defiant laugh rattled in his chest. He didn't look like a defeated man; he looked like a fanatic who had accepted his fate long before the game even started.
"You think killing me stops it, Vincent?" Salvatore wheezed, his eyes locked onto his boss with manic intensity. "The syndicate isn't yours anymore. You've gone soft. A mafia boss who gets distracted by dead wives and sick children isn't fit to rule a global empire. Vance and I weren't destroying your family out of malice—we were curing a weakness."
Vincent’s fist clenched, knuckles white, ready to strike again, but I stepped forward, placing a firm hand on his shoulder.
"Don't give him the satisfaction, Vincent," I said softly, meeting Salvatore’s venomous stare. "He doesn't care about the empire. He cares about his ego. He thought he was smarter than everyone in this room, yet he trusted a greedy corporate proxy like Vance to execute a biological assassination."
Salvatore’s sneer faltered slightly at my words. "You think you're clever, don't you? Some federal whistleblower playing detective in a mafia mansion."
"I'm not playing anything, Salvatore," I replied evenly. "I'm just watching a small, bitter man realize that his entire grand conspiracy was dismantled by a cleaning rag and a ventilation grate."
Vincent slowly released his grip, straightening his jacket as he stepped back from the table. He motioned to his enforcers with a flick of his wrist.
"Take Salvatore and Dominic down to the lower holding cells," Vincent ordered, his voice cold as arctic ice. "Lock them away where the light never reaches. As for Viktor and Mateo—you have twenty-four hours to decide whether your loyalty lies with the Moretti family or with a corpse in a basement cell."
Viktor and Mateo exchanged quick, tense glances before nodding stiffly in unison. There was no hesitation left in them; the display of absolute dominance had settled the debate once and for all.
As the enforcers dragged the screaming, thrashing Dominic and the silent, brooding Salvatore out of the dining hall, the heavy silence of the night rushed back in to fill the void.
Vincent stood at the head of the table, staring down at the splintered wood where Salvatore had lain. The adrenaline was slowly fading, leaving behind the exhausted reality of a man who had fought a war on two fronts and barely survived.
I walked over to him, gently placing my hand over his clenched fist. His muscles were tense, rigid as iron.
"It's over, Vincent," I whispered. "The leak is plugged. The council is secured."
Vincent turned slowly, looking down at me. The harsh, terrifying mafia lord vanished in an instant, replaced by a man drowning in an ocean of overwhelming gratitude and unspoken vulnerability.
"You saved my sons," he said, his voice cracking slightly. "And now you've saved my syndicate. Is there anything in this world you can't do, Claire?"
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"I can't seem to walk away from this house," I smiled softly, the warmth in my chest finally melting the last of the professional distance I had tried so hard to maintain.
Vincent reached out, his large, calloused hand gently cupping my cheek, his thumb brushing away a stray lock of hair. For a long moment, the world outside the estate—the bullets, the blood, the empires—ceased to exist entirely.
