Chapter 3 - The Weight of the Bottle
The silence that followed was heavier than any threat.
Vincent looked down at me, his gaze dropping momentarily to the pocket of my nightgown, where the outline of the small glass bottle had occasionally pressed against the fabric during my shifts.
“You’ve known for three weeks,” Vincent said. It wasn't a question.
“Known what?” I whispered, my throat tight.
“That Silas was coming for you.” Vincent reached out, his warm fingers gently catching my chin, forcing me to look up into his eyes. There was no rage in them now—only a terrifying, profound disappointment. “Or rather, that he had already gotten to you.”
From the floor, David Vance let out a raspy chuckle. “She’s his insurance policy, boss. Her brother owes eighty grand to the syndicate. Silas gave her a choice: slip the drops into your bourbon, or watch her little brother come home in a pine box. Only problem is, the girl didn't have the stomach for murder.”
My knees buckled.
If Vincent hadn't caught my arm, I would have hit the floor.
“Is that true?” Vincent asked. His voice was dangerously calm.
Tears spilled over my lashes, hot and blinding. I couldn't deny it. The evidence of my cowardice, my desperation, and my betrayal was written all over my face.
“I never put it in your glass,” I sobbed, my hands gripping the fabric of his shirt. “I swear to God, Vincent, every single night I stood by the bar, and I couldn't do it. I poured it down the sink three nights ago. I was going to pack my bags and run, but I couldn't leave my mother—”
“Shut up,” Vincent murmured, but his hand didn't let go of my arm. Instead, he pulled me closer, shielding me from David's mocking gaze.
Vincent turned his attention back to the bleeding head of security.
“David,” Vincent said, his voice dropping an octave into a register that made even the injured man flinch. “You assumed Bridget was your accomplice because you knew about the debt.”
David's smile faltered. “Everybody knows about the brother's debts, Vincent. It’s public knowledge in the underworld.”
“Except,” Vincent continued smoothly, stepping over the threshold of the doorway while keeping me behind him, “Silas didn't just target Bridget because of her brother. He targeted her because he knew I’d brought her file home from the main office last month.”
My breath hitched. “What?”
Vincent glanced back at me, his expression softening just a fraction. “When I hired you fourteen months ago, Bridget, I didn't do it by accident. Your father was Arthur Lang. The man who audited my family’s shipping ledgers back in the nineties before he was forced out.”
The world tilted.
“My father?” I whispered. “My father died when I was twelve. He was a small-town accountant.”
“Your father kept the only complete set of records detailing how Silas Dyer stole my family's initial capital,” Vincent corrected quietly. “And when David here sold our internal security logs to Silas three weeks ago, Silas realized you weren't just a random domestic worker. He thought you were looking for your father's missing ledger.”
David scrambled back against the wall, his face suddenly pale. “You're bluffing.”
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“Am I?” Vincent pulled a small leather-bound notebook from the pocket of his sweatpants and tossed it onto the floor between David's knees. “I found this in your desk drawer an hour ago, David. Along with a wire transfer receipt from a Cayman account registered to Silas Dyer.”
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