Chapter 2 - The Visitor in the Study
The sun had dipped below the Beverly Hills ridgeline, casting long, ominous shadows across the grand foyer of the Corvino estate.
Upstairs, Vincent sat in his motorized wheelchair—a heavy, custom-built machine he despised using because it felt like a rolling cage, but which Arya had insisted on purchasing so he could at least sit at the head of the table for formal dinners. He hadn't left the east wing in three months, but tonight, the crushing isolation of the bedroom had pushed him to the edge.
Downstairs, in the vaulted study lined with leather-bound books and dark walnut panels, Dominic Rossi poured himself a finger of neat bourbon.
Dominic was sleek, tailored, and smelled of cologne and ambition. He wore his dark hair slicked back, and his eyes darted around the room with the nervous energy of a man who knew he was wearing shoes that were two sizes too big for him.
The double doors opened, and Vincent rolled in.
Dominic froze, his glass halfway to his mouth. He hadn't expected Vincent to come downstairs. The rumor mill among the capos was that the boss couldn't even sit upright without fainting from low blood pressure.
“Vince,” Dominic recovered quickly, flashing a bright, white smile that didn't reach his eyes. “Look at you. Moving around. That’s great. Really great to see.”
Vincent rolled forward, stopping ten feet away. His massive shoulders filled out his dark shirt, contrasting sharply with the motionless blanket draped over his legs. His face was carved from granite.
“Save the cheerleading, Dominic,” Vincent said, his voice flat and deadpan. “Where are the harbor papers?”
Dominic set his glass down on the mahogany desk with a sharp clink. He reached into his leather portfolio, pulled out a thick stack of legal documents, and laid them out across the surface.
“Right here. Standard municipal transfer, assignment of operational rights to the South Bay syndicate,” Dominic explained, stepping around the desk to point to the signature line. “With you out of commission, the council is breathing down our necks. We need these properties under our control before the end of the fiscal quarter, or we lose the union kickbacks.”
Vincent looked at the papers. He didn't touch them. He looked up at Dominic, studying the slight twitch in his right eye and the way his weight shifted from foot to foot.
“Who is the South Bay syndicate, Dominic?” Vincent asked softly. “Give me a name.”
Dominic hesitated, just for a split second. “It’s... it’s the old Martinez crew. You know how they operate.”
“No, I don't,” Vincent replied, his voice dropping an octave. “Because the Martinez crew was dismantled three years ago when I burned their warehouses to the ground. Try again.”
Before Dominic could scramble for an excuse, the study door swung open wider.
Arya glided into the room, dressed in an emerald green evening gown that hugged her frame. She looked at Vincent in his wheelchair, her expression tightening with annoyance.
“Vince, what are you doing down here? You’re making Dominic uncomfortable,” she said, walking over to stand beside Dominic, her hand lightly brushing his arm.
Vincent’s eyes tracked the movement. It was a micro-gesture—a fraction of a second too intimate, too familiar. The way she stood close to him, the way Dominic’s posture relaxed the moment she touched him.
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The pieces clicked together in Vincent’s mind with the terrifying clarity of a gunshot.
“You’re not transferring the harbor to the South Bay syndicate,” Vincent said, looking directly at Dominic, though his heart felt like it was freezing in his chest. “You’re selling it out from under me. And Arya is your silent partner.”
