Chapter 7 - THE ARCHITECTURE OF A LIE
Vincent slowly opened his fist. He looked down at the dark, synthetic object resting in his palm, then looked up at Emily and Lily.
Emily was still standing near the bookcase, her face pale, trembling as she looked at her employer. She didn't understand the sinister revelation that had just occurred in Vincent's mind; she only knew that a miracle had happened, and that the feared boss of the Turner estate was speaking for the first time in his life.
Vincent looked at Lily. His hard features softened for a fraction of a second.
He reached out his large, calloused hand and gently touched the small jeweled tiara on the child's head, adjusting its tilt.
“Go with your mother, Lily,” Vincent said softly, his deep, raspy voice gaining more control and pitch with every word he spoke. “Go to your room.”
Lily nodded happily. She took her mother’s hand, and Emily bowed her head deeply toward Vincent, her eyes filled with tears, before quickly guiding her daughter out of the study and closing the heavy double doors behind them.
The heavy walnut doors clicked shut.
Vincent was alone in his private study.
The room was filled with sound: the crackle of papers on his blotter, the low hum of the harbor outside, the rhythmic tick-tock of the grandfather clock.
Vincent stood up from his leather chair. He walked slowly toward the tall, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking New York Harbor. The brilliant afternoon sun poured across his black suit jacket, casting a long, imposing shadow across the Persian rug.
He held the dark, synthetic object up to the light of the window.
His mind worked with terrifying speed, analyzing the timeline of his life.
Who had access to him when he was a three-year-old child?
His father, Anthony Turner, had died ten years ago, leaving the entire syndicate empire to Vincent. But Anthony had spent millions trying to "cure" his son. Anthony was not the architect of the lie—Anthony had been the primary target of the deception.
If Vincent was believed to be permanently deaf and mute, he would be viewed by rival families and internal captains as a weak, vulnerable figurehead—a leader who could easily be manipulated, bypassed, or eventually replaced by a "capable" speaking lieutenant.
For thirty-seven years, Vincent’s uncle, Arthur Turner, had served as the syndicate’s chief legal counsel and senior advisor. Arthur was the man who had personally selected the private Harley Street doctors in London. Arthur was the man who had received the medical reports. Arthur was the man who had managed the family trusts while Vincent was growing up.
And Arthur was currently sitting in the secondary conference room on the first floor, waiting to brief Vincent on the Brooklyn dock lease negotiations.
Vincent’s eyes narrowed into slits of pure, cold steel.
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He closed his hand into a tight, rock-hard fist.
He turned away from the window and walked toward his desk.
