Chapter 8 - The Sinking Ship
The buzzing of the satellite phone filled the quiet study, persistent and demanding.
Vincent stared at the screen, watching Dominic’s private encrypted number flash against the dark glass. He didn't answer immediately. He let it ring twice, three times, letting the psychological weight of the silence build on the other end of the line.
Beside him, Frankie stood with his arms crossed, grinning like a wolf, while Tessa watched with a still, watchful intensity.
Vincent pressed the speakerphone button and laid the phone flat on the desk.
“Dominic,” Vincent said, his voice deep, smooth, and laced with absolute venom. “I was wondering when you’d call. How’s the weather in the harbor district?”
A heavy, static-laced silence hung on the line for a second before Dominic’s voice erupted through the tiny speaker, frantic, furious, and completely stripped of its usual smooth composure.
“Vince! What the hell did you just do?!” Dominic screamed. “My accounts are locked! Every offshore node, every shell reserve—it’s all gone! The banks are rejecting my wire transfers!”
“Correction, Dominic,” Vincent replied, leaning back in his wheelchair with cold satisfaction. “You didn't lose your money. You simply returned what you stole from my family. Plus interest for the inconvenience of waking me up in the middle of the night.”
“You think you’re smart, you crippled piece of shit!” Dominic snarled, his voice cracking with rage. “You think a few keystrokes save you? I’ve got fifty men armed to the teeth heading to your estate right this second! We’re going to burn that mausoleum to the ground with you inside it!”
Vincent didn't flinch. He glanced up at Frankie, then back at the phone.
“Send them,” Vincent whispered. “Because unlike you, Dominic, my men are already inside your perimeter. In fact, I’m looking at your chief financial officer right now, and he sends his regards.”
Marcus let out a muffled whimper of sheer terror, backing away until his spine hit the bookshelf.
On the other end of the line, Dominic went dead silent. The realization of what had just happened—the betrayal, the financial ruin, the tactical blunder of sending his best men away to a dead-end hit while leaving his financial core exposed—crashed down on him all at once.
“Vince, wait—let’s talk,” Dominic’s voice suddenly shifted, turning desperate, wheedling, pathetic. “We’re family, Vince. We can cut a deal. Fifty-fifty on the port contracts, just give me back the routing keys—!”
Vincent cut the connection with a single tap of his finger, plunging the room back into silence.
He looked at Frankie. “Get Marcus down to the basement holding cell. Keep him secure. Then rally every loyal gun we have left on the payroll. Dominic is going to make a desperate, stupid move within the hour.”
“Consider it done, Boss,” Frankie said, grabbing the terrified accountant by the collar of his suit jacket and dragging him out of the study without ceremony.
The heavy doors clicked shut, leaving only Vincent and Tessa in the room.
Vincent exhaled slowly, rubbing his temples with his thumb and forefinger. The adrenaline crash was starting to hit him, a dull, heavy ache settling deep into his chest and his paralyzed lower back.
Tessa didn't move. She stood quietly near the desk, looking down at him with a gaze that cut straight through the armor of his tough exterior.
“You’re bleeding,” Tessa said softly, pointing a slender finger toward his left shoulder where a stray wood splinter from the earlier firefight had torn through his shirt and nicked the skin.
May you like
Vincent looked down, almost surprised. “It’s nothing.”
“Sit still,” she ordered, walking over to the medical kit she had left on the side table earlier that evening.
