Chapter 2 - The Serpent at the Table
By Thursday evening, the Corvino estate was shrouded in a heavy fog rolling off the bay.
Inside the grand dining room downstairs, Dominic—Vincent’s former right-hand man—was hosting an emergency meeting with four of the syndicate's top earners. Laughter, the clinking of whiskey glasses, and the heavy smell of expensive cigars drifted up through the floorboards, filling the master bedroom with the bitter taste of betrayal.
Vincent sat in a heavy, custom-built leather wheelchair near the window.
It had taken forty minutes of agonizing effort, supported by Tessa’s firm hands and steady guidance, to transfer his heavy, paralyzed upper body from the bed into the chair. His legs hung limp against the footrests, but his spine was straight, his shoulders broad, and his dark eyes sharp.
Tessa stood behind him, gently adjusting a dark wool blanket over his lap to keep the evening chill away.
"You don't have to go down there, Mr. Corvino," Tessa whispered near his ear. "You don't owe them anything."
"I owe them a lesson," Vincent replied quietly, his jaw set in a line of cold steel. "Tessa... open the bottom drawer of the mahogany wardrobe near the bookshelf."
Tessa hesitated, then walked across the room and opened the drawer. Inside lay a velvet-lined wooden box.
"Bring it here," he commanded softly.
She brought the box to his lap. Vincent opened the latch, revealing a sleek, custom black Italian automatic pistol—clean, oiled, and fully loaded.
Tessa didn't scream or shrink back. She simply looked at the gun, then up at Vincent’s face.
"Are you going to shoot someone?" she asked calmly.
"Only if they forget who owns this house," Vincent said. He closed the velvet box and tucked it beneath the blanket on his lap. "Roll me to the elevator."
Tessa placed her hands on the rubber grips of his wheelchair. She felt the quiet tension in his muscular shoulders, the absolute resolve in his breathing. She didn't argue. She pushed him out into the quiet hallway and down the brass elevator shaft toward the dining hall.
When the heavy double doors of the dining hall swung open, the room fell into an immediate, breathless silence.
Dominic sat at the head of the long oak table, a glass of thirty-year-old scotch in his hand, with Arya sitting right beside him, her hand resting casually near Dominic’s arm.
Dominic’s smile vanished instantly. The four undercapos stood up instinctively, their hands twitching toward their coats out of sheer muscle memory before remembering that the titan before them was bound to a wheel-bound seat.
"Vincent..." Dominic stammered, recovering his composure with a slick, patronizing smirk. "What a surprise. We didn't want to disturb you upstairs. You should be resting."
Vincent’s wheelchair rolled smoothly to the foot of the table, propelled by Tessa’s steady hands.
Vincent looked at Dominic, then at Arya, whose face turned pale as she quickly pulled her hand away from Dominic’s side.
"Disturb me?" Vincent’s gravelly voice cut through the rich room like a honed butcher's knife. "In my own home? Eating my food? Drinking my scotch?"
Dominic stood up, buttoning his jacket, trying to project power. "Look, Vince... we're just trying to keep the business running. The harbor accounts need to be signed. The Russian crews are stepping onto our turf in Midtown. We need a boss who can move, who can be seen on the streets."
"You need a boss who can think," Vincent countered, his voice steady, low, and terrifying. "And you need to remember where you were standing ten years ago when I pulled you out of the gutters of South Brooklyn, Dominic."
Vincent reached beneath the blanket on his lap.
Every man in the room tensed instantly.
Vincent pulled out a stack of thick leather folders—documents Tessa had retrieved from his private safe earlier that afternoon—and slammed them onto the marble tabletop with a loud thud.
"These are the audit reports for the harbor docks, Dominic," Vincent said coldly. "You've been skimming eight percent off the union funds for six months. You thought because I was lying in a bed upstairs, I was blind."
Dominic’s jaw tightened, his eyes flaring with sudden, panicked rage. "You're a cripple, Vincent! You're sitting in a chair being pushed around by a twenty-dollar maid! You think you still rule this city?!"
"I know I do," Vincent whispered.
He looked at the four undercapos standing behind Dominic. "Capos... if Dominic stays in this house for another five minutes, his accounts are seized, and his crew is disbanded. If you walk out that door right now and report to my study tomorrow morning at nine, your cuts remain untouched."
Silence gripped the room.
One by one, the four undercapos looked at Dominic, then at the terrifying authority still radiating from Vincent’s eyes. They bowed their heads respectfully toward Vincent, pushed past Dominic, and walked out of the dining room without uttering a single word.
Dominic’s face turned bright red, his fists clenched in humiliation. "This isn't over, Vince!" he snarled, glaring furiously at Tessa before turning and rushing out into the rainy night.
May you like
Arya sat frozen in her chair, trembling as Vincent’s dark gaze turned to her.
"Pack your bags, Arya," Vincent said softly, his voice utterly devoid of emotion. "You have until morning."
