70 The Silver Crest Conspiracy: How a Housekeeper’s Three-Year-Old Daughter Unearthed a Syndicate’s Deadliest Betrayal

The silence that fell over the boardroom was absolute, fractured only by the ragged breathing of the capos trapped in the crossfire of Dominic's security team. Nobody dared to reach for a weapon. Nobody dared to breathe too loudly.

Uncle Vincent didn't flinch. He stared down the barrel of Dominic's Beretta with a calm, disturbing serenity, slowly sliding his hand into the inner pocket of his tailored jacket.

"Drop it, Vincent," Dominic warned, his finger tightening slightly on the trigger. "If your hand comes out holding anything other than air, you're a dead man before you hit the floor."

"I'm not reaching for a gun, nephew," Vincent replied smoothly. He withdrew his hand slowly, holding up a small, dark object between his thumb and forefinger, letting it catch the overhead light.

It was a custom black button, identical to the one found in the estate's cold room, engraved with the intricate, interlocking silver serpents of the Moretti family crest.

Dominic's eyes narrowed, though the gun didn't waver. "Where did you get that?"

"From the coat of the man who actually put the cashew protein in the frosting," Vincent said, tossing the button onto the table. It rolled across the wood and clattered against the white envelope. "You think I'm clumsy enough to do my own dirty work, Dominic? You think after forty years of building this empire, I'd walk into the kitchens with a silver box like a common foot soldier?"

"If you didn't do it, who did?" I asked, stepping forward, my heart pounding against my ribs.

Vincent turned his gaze toward me, his expression twisting into an ugly, mocking sneer. "Ask the girl standing behind you. Ask your precious employer who else has access to the family crests. Ask the man who stood right beside your father when he died."

Dominic's face drained of color. He slowly lowered the gun, turning his head to look not at Vincent, but toward the man sitting quietly at the far end of the table—his own head of security, Marcus Vance.

Marcus hadn't drawn a weapon. He hadn't stood up when the guards rushed the room. He sat with his hands folded neatly on the table, a faint, polite smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

"Marcus," Dominic said, his voice dropping into a dangerous, gravelly whisper.

Marcus slowly stood up, pushing his chair back with a soft scrape against the floor. He didn't look like a traitor caught in a trap; he looked like a man who had planned every single second of this confrontation.

"You were always too trusting of the people who smiled at you, boss," Marcus said smoothly, his hand resting casually inside his jacket. "Just like your old man."

Before Dominic could raise his weapon again, Marcus whipped out a small, heavy black detonator from his coat pocket and slammed his thumb down onto the center button.

BOOM.