Chapter 9 - THE MOTIVE OF A TRAITOR
Vincent slowly pulled his left hand out of his jacket pocket. He unclasped the heavy gold band, letting the timepiece rest in his open palm.
The back of the watch—polished 24-karat gold—bore a custom, hand-engraved dark blue sapphire star. Resting on the gold rim beside the star were tiny, microscopic smears of dark blue frosting—the same blue frosting that had coated the birthday cake upstairs.
"Why, Vincent?" Dominic asked softly, stopping three feet away from his long-time lieutenant. "I gave you half of the South Side territory. I made your sons millionaires. You ate at my table for twenty years."
Vincent’s polite, nervous demeanor melted away entirely, replaced by a bitter, dark venom that had been festering beneath his polished exterior for a decade.
"You gave me scraps, Dominic!" Vincent spat, his voice echoing off the stainless steel walls. "You gave me logistics and collections while you sat on the throne! New York offered me full control of the Chicago syndicate... all I had to do was ensure the Moretti bloodline ended tonight with Ethan!"
Dominic didn't flinch. Hearing that his oldest lieutenant had conspired with the rival Moretti enemies in New York to murder his seven-year-old son didn't fill him with rage—it filled him with a cold, absolute, mathematical certainty of what had to be done.
"A three-year-old girl saw you, Vincent," Dominic murmured quietly. "A housemaid's child ruined your thirty-million-dollar assassination."
Vincent stared at him, his mouth opening in bitter, unbelievable shock. "A maid's kid...?"
"She saw the blue star," Dominic said softly.
Dominic reached into his coat pocket. In a single, fluid, lightning-fast motion that blurred in the fluorescent light, he unholstered his sidearm, leveled the barrel directly between Vincent's eyes, and pulled the trigger.
THWIP!
The suppressed report was no louder than a soft cough.
Vincent Rossi’s eyes went wide, his body locking for a fraction of a second before collapsing heavily against the stainless steel shelving, sliding down onto the cold floor. The heavy gold watch slipped from his lifeless fingers, clattering onto the concrete floor beside the small container of allergen extract.
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Dominic stood over the body for three silent seconds, his breathing steady, his face cold as stone. He reached down, picked up the gold watch, and stepped out of the cold room into the warm corridor where Marco was waiting with four armed guards.
"Clean the cold room," Dominic commanded flatly, tossing the gold watch into Marco's hand. "And notify New York that their Chicago contract has been canceled."
