Chapter 5 - THE PHOTOGRAPH
The folded piece of paper sat next to the silver pocket watch, looking entirely unassuming.
Callahan stared at it, his face flushing a dangerous shade of crimson. “You’re bluffing, Marino.”
Vincent didn’t argue. He just gestured toward the paper with two fingers.
Callahan snatched it off the table and unfolded it. It was a photocopy of a police evidence log, dated five years ago. Attached to it was a grainy reproduction of the exact Polaroid, along with a chain of custody report.
“How did you get this?” Callahan demanded, his voice dropping to a furious whisper.
“When Thomas came to me begging for two million dollars, I didn’t just hand over a briefcase full of cash,” Vincent said, his voice smooth and precise. “I do my research, Henry. I found out who was extorting him. I found your little safety deposit box. I bought the original photograph from the private investigator you hired.”
Claire’s head was spinning. She looked at Vincent, seeing him not as the quiet man reading by the fire, but as the ruthless tactician the rest of Chicago feared.
“You’ve had the proof this whole time?” Claire asked, her voice cracking. “You’ve known what Tom did for five years?”
Vincent turned to her. The absolute coldness in his eyes melted instantly. “I kept it to protect you, Claire. If I destroyed it, Henry could have found another way to come after you. By holding the original, I held Henry’s leash.”
Tom suddenly stood up, his chair scraping violently against the hardwood floor of the ballroom.
“You set me up!” Tom shouted, his panic boiling over into irrational rage. He pointed a shaking finger at Vincent. “You orchestrated this whole thing! You stole my wife, you stole my money, and now you’re trying to ruin me in front of everyone!”
Several heads from nearby tables turned. The music from the dance floor seemed to fade into the background.
“Tom, sit down,” Rebecca hissed, grabbing his sleeve, her face burning with humiliation. “People are looking.”
“I don’t care!” Tom yelled, ripping his arm away. He lunged toward Claire, his face twisted in desperation. “Claire, you have to tell them! Tell the police I was with you that whole night! Be my alibi!”
He reached out, his hand grasping aggressively for Claire’s shoulder.
He never made it.
Vincent moved faster than Claire could process. He didn’t stand up. He simply caught Tom’s wrist mid-air.
Vincent’s grip was like an industrial vice. Tom let out a sharp gasp of pain, his knees buckling slightly as Vincent applied a terrifying amount of pressure.
“Do not touch her,” Vincent said. His voice wasn’t loud, but it carried the weight of a death sentence.
“You’re breaking it!” Tom whimpered, his face turning pale.
Vincent held the grip for three agonizing seconds longer than necessary, making sure Tom understood exactly how fragile his bones were. Then, with a look of utter disgust, Vincent shoved Tom’s arm away.
Tom stumbled backward, clutching his wrist against his chest.
As he stumbled, something slipped from the inner pocket of his poorly tailored suit jacket. It fluttered to the floor, landing near Claire’s black heels.
It was a small, stiff piece of yellow cardboard.
A valet ticket.
But it didn’t have the Blackwood Country Club logo on it.
Claire looked down. She recognized the logo stamped in black ink. It was the crest of the Palmer House Hotel downtown.
Claire bent down and picked it up.
She turned it over. Scrawled on the back in red ink was a room number: 412.
Tom saw the ticket in her hand. If he looked panicked before, he looked absolutely terrified now.
“Give that back,” Tom breathed, taking a step forward, then stopping as Vincent shifted his weight.
Rebecca stared at the ticket. Her brow furrowed deeply. “Tom, what is that? We haven’t been to the Palmer House in months.”
“It’s nothing,” Tom lied instantly. “It’s an old dry-cleaning stub.”
“It’s a hotel valet ticket,” Claire said aloud, reading the print. She looked at her ex-husband. “Who is in Room 412, Tom?”
Tom swallowed hard. He looked at Callahan, who was watching the exchange with narrowing eyes.
“You idiot,” Callahan murmured, realization dawnig on his face. “You didn’t.”
“I didn’t have a choice!” Tom suddenly shrieked at Callahan. “You were squeezing me dry! Marino took everything else! I needed a safety net!”
Vincent stood up slowly. He buttoned his suit jacket, his eyes locked on Tom.
“You stole from him,” Vincent stated. It wasn’t a question.
Callahan slammed his fist onto the table, making the silverware jump. “You pathetic little rat. I let you manage the offshore accounts for my development firm, and you skimmed off the top?”
Rebecca gasped, covering her mouth with her hands. She finally understood. Her wealthy, successful husband wasn’t just broke. He was a thief who had stolen from the mob.
“We are leaving,” Vincent said, placing his hand gently on Claire’s back.
“Nobody is leaving,” Callahan growled, standing up.
May you like
At his signal, two massive men in dark suits detached themselves from the shadows near the ballroom exit and began walking toward Table 6.
“The ledger gets balanced tonight,” Callahan said, pointing at Tom. “And Marino, if you stand in my way, I’ll burn this entire room down.”
