Chapter 4 - THE UNCLE'S SMILE
The grand foyer felt as though the temperature had instantly dropped twenty degrees.
Leah instinctively took a step backward, placing her body between Vincenzo and Salvatore’s wheelchair. Her hands gripped the handles of the chair so tightly her knuckles turned white.
“How do you know her name, Uncle Vincenzo?” Marco asked. His voice was smooth, deceptively calm, but he unbuttoned his suit jacket, granting himself easy access to the shoulder holster hidden beneath the fabric.
Vincenzo chuckled, a dry, rattling sound that echoed off the high ceilings. He limped forward, his silver-tipped cane tapping rhythmically against the marble floor.
“I know the name of every employee who sleeps under the Russo roof, Marco,” Vincenzo said smoothly. “Security is my priority. When Mrs. Whitcomb mentioned she was hiring a desperate, pregnant girl from Chicago, I simply did a background check. You can never be too careful.”
Leah felt a cold bead of sweat roll down her spine. Vincenzo was lying. The way he looked at her—like a spider looking at a fly caught in a web—told her he knew exactly who she was before she ever set foot in Connecticut.
Vincenzo stopped a few feet away. He looked down at Salvatore.
“Brother,” Vincenzo sighed, his face twisting into a mask of theatrical pity. “You look exhausted. This noise, all this commotion in the hallway… it isn’t good for your heart.”
Salvatore’s jaw clenched. His good hand curled into a tight, shaking fist on his lap. He didn't blink. He just stared at the man who had stolen his life.
“Mrs. Whitcomb just left us,” Marco said casually, testing the waters. “She seemed to think you and she shared a special understanding regarding my father’s medical care.”
Vincenzo didn’t flinch. His smile remained perfectly fixed.
“Mrs. Whitcomb is a hysterical woman,” Vincenzo replied dismissively. “She was overwhelmed. That’s why I brought my own medical staff today.”
Vincenzo snapped his fingers.
One of his gray-suited bodyguards stepped forward, carrying a black leather medical bag.
“I’m transferring your father to my private estate in the Hamptons, Marco,” Vincenzo declared, his tone leaving no room for argument. “He needs specialized, round-the-clock care. Clearly, this environment is becoming too chaotic for him.”
Marco stepped squarely in front of his father’s wheelchair, blocking Vincenzo’s path.
“He stays here,” Marco said.
“Marco,” Vincenzo’s voice hardened, the grandfatherly facade slipping. “You are the boss of the streets, yes. But I am the elder of this family. Salvatore is my brother. I have the medical power of attorney.”
Leah’s heart plummeted. If Vincenzo took Salvatore to his private estate, the old man would be dead within a week, and everyone would call it a tragic, natural passing.
The bodyguard with the medical bag stepped closer, reaching into his pocket. Leah watched him carefully. While Vincenzo and Marco were locked in a staring contest, the bodyguard pulled a small, dark glass vial from his pocket.
He moved toward the small antique table beside the staircase, where Leah had left Salvatore’s evening glass of water.
With a sleight of hand born of years of practice, the bodyguard uncorked the vial and tipped it over the water glass.
“No!” Leah shouted.
Without thinking, she lunged forward, throwing her entire body weight against the heavy antique table.
The table crashed to the marble floor. The water glass shattered into a hundred pieces, soaking the expensive Persian rug. The bodyguard stumbled backward, cursing as the empty glass vial rolled out of his hand and clattered against the baseboards.
Silence slammed back into the room.
Everyone stared at the pregnant maid panting heavily on the floor, surrounded by broken glass.
Vincenzo’s face contorted with pure, unadulterated rage.
He didn’t yell. He simply raised his silver cane and swung it down violently toward Leah’s shoulders.
Before the heavy silver tip could connect, a deafening CRACK echoed through the foyer.
Vincenzo froze.
Marco stood over Leah, his black Glock 19 drawn and aimed directly at the space between Vincenzo’s eyes.
“If you touch her,” Marco whispered, the absolute authority of a Mafia Don radiating from his every pore, “I will paint this marble with your brains. Family or not.”
Vincenzo slowly lowered the cane. His chest heaved with suppressed fury. He looked at the gun, then at Marco, and finally at Leah, who was carefully pushing herself up from the wet floor.
“You draw a weapon on your own blood for a maid?” Vincenzo sneered. “You are weak, Marco. Just like your father. You let sentimentality blind you to reality.”
“Get out of my house,” Marco ordered, his finger tightening on the trigger.
Vincenzo straightened his cashmere coat. He signaled his men, who slowly began backing toward the front door.
“I’m leaving,” Vincenzo said softly. “But you should know, Marco. The Commission voted this morning. They believe you are too distracted to lead. They’ve granted me temporary oversight of your territories. Which means this house, this property, and all the men guarding the perimeter outside… they answer to me now.”
Marco’s eyes widened slightly.
“Sleep well, nephew,” Vincenzo smiled. “And lock your doors.”
The heavy oak doors slammed shut behind him.
Marco instantly holstered his weapon and pulled his phone from his pocket, dialing his head of security.
“The number you have reached is unavailable.”
Marco cursed, trying another number. Dead air.
“He jammed the cell towers,” Marco realized, looking toward the large bay windows. Outside, the shadows of the estate’s perimeter guards were moving. But they weren’t patrolling. They were surrounding the house, facing inward.
They were trapped.
Leah sat on the floor, her hands shaking as she carefully picked up the larger pieces of broken glass.
As she reached for a jagged shard near the baseboard, her fingers brushed against something else.
It was tucked beneath the edge of the fallen table. She pulled it out.
It wasn’t the poison vial. It was a heavy, tarnished silver rosary.
Leah looked at it, confused. “Mr. Russo? Is this yours?”
Marco looked down. He frowned, taking the rosary from her hand.
“No,” Marco said, inspecting the heavy beads. “This was hidden inside the lining of my father’s wheelchair. Vincenzo’s bodyguard must have knocked it loose when he bumped the chair.”
Marco ran his thumb over the large, ornate crucifix.
With a sharp click, the back of the cross popped open.
Inside the hollowed-out silver cross was a tightly rolled strip of microfilm.
May you like
Marco stared at the hidden film, the truth finally dawning on him.
“My father wasn't just running away,” Marco whispered, looking down at the paralyzed man. “He stole the family ledgers. And Vincenzo is here to get them back before we can read them.”
