Chapter 2 - The Brass Key and the Forged Signature
The accusation from his six-year-old daughter hung in the dimly lit corridor like smoke.
He wasn’t working for Grandpa. He was working for you.
Vincent stared at Daniel Rourke, the man who had been his shadow for nearly two decades. Rourke’s hand didn’t tremble as he held the pistol, but his eyes betrayed a flicker of genuine panic.
“I received the extraction order from your private encrypted line, Vincent,” Rourke said, his voice tight. “Four years ago, the night of the fire. The message said Anthony was going to have Sofia killed to punish you for refusing the dock expansions. It ordered me to pull her out and hide her in the upstate safe house. It was signed with your authorization code.”
Vincent’s blood turned to ice.
“I never sent that order, Daniel.”
Victoria Hale let out a sharp, breathless laugh, adjusting the diamond strap of her ruined evening gown.
“Oh, please,” she said, stepping closer to Rourke. “Don’t let him manipulate you, Daniel. Vincent is lying to save face. He wanted the child gone so he wouldn’t have a vulnerability when he took over the family.”
But Vincent wasn’t looking at Victoria. He was looking at his daughter, who was trembling against his chest.
“Daddy didn’t send him, Sofia,” Vincent whispered fiercely, kissing the top of her head. “I would have burned the world down before I let anyone take you.”
He looked back at Rourke.
“Who has the authorization code besides me?” Vincent asked.
“No one,” Rourke replied, his gun wavering just a fraction of an inch. “Except your father. And he’s dead.”
Before Victoria could speak again, the sound of heavy boots echoed from the bottom of the private staircase. The men from the south exit had breached the building.
Vincent didn’t hesitate. He pulled his own weapon and fired two shots into the ceiling above Rourke’s head. The plaster exploded, raining dust and debris over Victoria and the rogue bodyguard.
“Run!” Vincent shouted, shoving Lily and carrying Sofia down the narrow service corridor in the opposite direction.
They burst through the heavy double doors of the restaurant’s upper administrative wing. This was the floor where Anthony Moretti used to hold his private ledgers.
Vincent slammed the doors shut and threw the heavy steel deadbolt just as bullets began to splinter the wood from the other side.
“The key, Lily,” Vincent demanded, breathing heavily.
The thirteen-year-old girl’s hands were shaking so badly she nearly dropped the small brass key. Vincent snatched it, carrying Sofia toward the heavy mahogany door at the end of the hall—his father’s old private study, sealed since the day he died.
He jammed the brass key into the lock. It turned with a heavy, satisfying click.
They rushed inside, locking the door behind them.
The room smelled of stale cigar smoke and old paper. The walls were lined with filing cabinets. But Vincent’s eyes were drawn immediately to the center of the room.
Sitting on the massive oak desk was a modern laptop. Its screen was glowing.
Someone had been in this sealed room recently.
Vincent set Sofia down gently behind the heavy leather sofa. “Stay down, sweetheart. Cover your ears.”
He approached the desk. Beside the glowing laptop lay a heavy, silver pocket watch.
It was Anthony Moretti’s watch. Vincent had personally placed it in his father’s casket six years ago.
He picked it up. The metal was warm.
Then he looked at the laptop screen. It was an open email client, routed through the dark web. The sent folder was open.
The most recent message had been sent twenty minutes ago, exactly when Lily warned him about the men at the south exit.
The message read: Target is at table four. Eliminate Vincent. Retrieve the girl.
The sender’s address was Anthony Moretti’s old encrypted handle.
But it was the signature at the bottom that made Vincent’s breath catch in his throat.
It wasn’t his father’s name. It was signed with a single, chilling initial.
V.
Vincent turned toward the shadows of the study, raising his gun.
“It wasn’t my father who arranged all this,” Vincent said aloud. “Was it, Victoria?”
The heavy velvet curtains by the fire escape rustled.
But it wasn’t Victoria who stepped out into the dim light.
It was a man in a tailored suit, holding a suppressed pistol aimed directly at Lily’s head.
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A man who looked exactly like Vincent.
“Hello, little brother,” the man smiled.
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