Chapter 4: Shadows in the East Wing
The sharp clatter of the mahogany chair hitting the marble floor echoed off the vaulted ceiling, scattering the last remnants of polite illusion in the grand ballroom. Dominic scrambled to his feet, his tailored suit jacket twisted awkwardly around his shoulder, his face mottled with a mixture of rage and sheer panic as he pointed a trembling finger at Grace. "You insane old woman," Dominic snarled, taking a threatening step forward, but Vincent didn't even turn his head. He remained kneeling on one knee before me, his towering frame folded down to my height, his dark eyes locked onto the cracked screen of the smartphone as if it were a tether holding him to the living world. The raw, unfiltered anguish etched into the lines around his mouth made him look less like a feared mafia boss and more like a man standing over an open grave for the second time in his life.
"Tell me," Vincent repeated, his voice barely a rough whisper against the marble floor. "Tell me where you found this phone." I clutched the device a little tighter, feeling the sharp edge of the broken glass bite softly into my thumb, drawing a single bead of crimson that went unnoticed in the dim amber light. "It was behind the loose floorboards in the servants' staircase of the east wing," I said, pitching my voice so only he and the trembling women could hear. "Right where nobody looks, underneath the old cedar trunk that used to belong to Mrs. Vance." Isabella let out a sharp, choked sob from the settee, covering her face with both hands as her pristine blonde hair fell forward like a curtain hiding her terror. Dominic cursed under his breath, realizing that the physical evidence they had spent four years believing was at the bottom of the bay had been sitting inside the mansion all along.
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Vincent slowly rose to his full height, towering over Dominic with a lethal, predatory stillness that made the other man instinctively take two steps backward until his spine hit the mahogany wall. Without a word, Vincent reached out and plucked the cracked smartphone from my trembling fingers, his thumb brushing against mine for a fraction of a second. The warmth of his skin contrasted sharply with the freezing realization settling into my bones. He slipped the phone into the inner pocket of his black button-up shirt, right over his heart, as if locking away a dangerous secret in a vault of bone and muscle. "Grace," Vincent said without looking back, his tone flattening into an icy, deadpan calm that was infinitely more terrifying than his rage. "Take the girl to the secure kitchen pantry. Lock the deadbolt behind you, and do not open it for anyone—not for Dominic, not for Isabella, and especially not for security."
Grace nodded frantically, her hands shaking as she grabbed my shoulder and pulled me gently toward the heavy carved service doors at the far end of the ballroom. As we retreated into the shadows of the arched hallway, I cast one last look back over my shoulder. Vincent was standing alone in the center of the vast, glittering room beneath the sparkling chandelier, the unsigned contract lying forgotten on the marble table like a discarded death warrant. Dominic was shouting something about syndicate protocols and board approval, but Vincent didn't blink. He simply reached inside his coat, his hand resting flat against his chest where Sofia’s final warning was stored, and began walking slowly toward the dark, winding corridor that led directly to the abandoned east wing.
