Chapter 2 - The Maid Who Knew Too Much|
Nora returned with the black Brioni suit draped over one arm and a crisp white shirt over the other.
“I worked at a dry cleaner in college,” she explained when Vincent continued staring at her. “You learn what expensive clothes look like when people bring them in with wine stains and broken buttons.”
“I don’t have broken buttons.”
“Not yet.”
She laid the suit across the bed.
Vincent watched her straighten the jacket with the precision of someone preparing a uniform for inspection.
“Why are you doing this?” he asked.
“Because you told me to pick a suit.”
“You know what I mean.”
Nora paused.
For once, she seemed to consider her answer carefully.
“Because a room full of men is deciding what happens to your life while you're upstairs listening to them laugh.”
“They’re my men.”
“Then why are they downstairs laughing without you?”
The question landed like a slap.
Vincent’s expression hardened.
“You’re getting comfortable speaking to me.”
“I’m getting tired of watching people mistake your silence for permission.”
“You have no idea what those men are capable of.”
“Neither do you, apparently. Not anymore.”
For a moment, the room seemed to shrink around them.
Then Nora picked up the shirt and placed it beside him.
“I’ll leave you to dress.”
“I can dress myself.”
“I know.”
She walked out without offering to help him transfer from his wheelchair or pretending not to notice the difficulty of reaching the lower buttons. It was the closest thing to respect anyone had shown him in months.
Vincent dressed slowly.
His hands worked well enough most days, but the muscles in his abdomen sometimes spasmed when he leaned too far forward. By the time he finished buttoning the shirt, sweat had gathered at his hairline.
He considered calling for help.
Instead, he adjusted the cuffs and wheeled himself toward the door.
Nora was waiting in the hallway.
She glanced at his collar.
“Your left side is folded.”
Vincent stared at her.
“Are you going to fix it?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because you can.”
He corrected it.
“Happy?”
“Thrilled.”
They descended in the private elevator, which opened near the dining room corridor. As the doors parted, the sound of male laughter rolled toward them.
Marcus Dane stood at the head of Vincent’s dining table, holding a glass of bourbon.
He wore a charcoal suit and the relaxed confidence of a man who had already decided the throne was empty.
Around him sat Vincent’s captains.
Eddie Cole, a broad-shouldered man with a scar through his eyebrow.
Samuel Pike, whose gray hair and quiet voice had helped him survive three decades in Bellori territory.
And two younger lieutenants who suddenly found the tablecloth fascinating when Vincent appeared.
Marcus’s smile froze.
“Vincent. You should be resting.”
Vincent rolled into the room.
“Then why did you bring the entire organization into my dining room?”
Nobody answered.
Nora remained by the doorway, invisible to the men who had never bothered learning her name.
Vincent surveyed the table.
“My chair is empty.”
Marcus glanced at the seat at the head.
“We were discussing the temporary arrangements.”
“Temporary arrangements?”
“Until you recover.”
“From what, Marcus? A bullet or your ambition?”
Eddie coughed into his fist.
Marcus set down his glass.
“No one is trying to replace you.”
“Wonderful. Then you won’t mind explaining why I’ve received no financial reports in six weeks.”
“We didn’t want to overwhelm you.”
“You’ve mistaken me for a dying man.”
Marcus’s jaw tightened.
“Your doctors have made it clear that your condition is serious.”
“My doctors treat my spine. They don’t manage my company.”
“Your company?” Marcus repeated softly. “Vincent, half the men at this table have been keeping it alive.”
“And every one of them was paid to do so.”
Vincent reached for a folder Nora had placed on the sideboard. She had found it in his office when he asked for the monthly summaries.
He opened it.
“Northside shipping has reported three unexplained losses. Two properties have been transferred to a new holding company. And somebody approved a payment worth four million dollars without my signature.”
The room went still.
Marcus didn’t move.
“That’s an accounting error.”
“Then you can explain it.”
“I’ll have the accountants review it.”
“No. You’ll bring the original documents to my office tomorrow morning.”
Marcus’s eyes flickered toward the wheelchair.
“Your office?”
Vincent leaned back.
“My office.”
For the first time that evening, the older captains looked at him instead of past him.
Marcus forced a smile.
“Of course.”
Vincent’s gaze moved from face to face.
“Until I say otherwise, every major transaction requires my approval. No property transfers. No new accounts. No meetings about my future unless I’m in the room.”
Samuel Pike nodded once.
Eddie followed.
The younger men lowered their eyes.
Marcus lifted his bourbon.
“To Vincent’s recovery.”
Nobody drank.
Vincent turned his chair toward the exit.
As Nora opened the door, he heard Marcus mutter, “This is going to be a disaster.”
Vincent stopped.
Then he turned his head.
“No, Marcus. A disaster is what happens when nobody notices the man holding the knife.”
He left the room.
Behind him, Nora’s footsteps followed.
At the corridor, Vincent spoke without looking at her.
“You knew they’d react that way.”
“I suspected.”
“And you still pushed me downstairs.”
Nora adjusted the towels in her arms.
“You did the hard part yourself.”
He looked at her for a long moment.
Then his phone vibrated.
A message from an unknown number appeared on the screen.
You should have stayed upstairs, boss.
Vincent read it twice.
Then he locked the phone.
May you like
For the first time in eight months, he felt something stronger than humiliation.
He felt hunted.
