Chapter 4 - Justice on the Hearth Rug
The laughter subsided slowly, leaving a faint, genuine crinkle around the corners of Vincent’s hazel eyes. He leaned forward again, resting his tattooed forearms against the dark grain of the table, bringing his face down until his eyes were level with Lucy’s wide, solemn stare.
Lucy, however, remained entirely unimpressed by his amusement. She did not giggle. She did not soften her stance. She held the mutilated rabbit aloft like a prosecutor presenting a murder weapon to the supreme bench, waiting for the rule of law to be enforced.
"You're right," Vincent said, his voice dropping into a register of solemn, judicial gravity that managed to be completely serious while masking his underlying delight. "This is a gross breach of conduct. Property damage. Aggravated assault on a civilian."
He turned his head slowly to his left, fixing Bishop with an uncompromising glare.
The Belgian Malinois shrank down by half an inch, lowering his muzzle until his whiskers nearly brushed the parquet. The tiny tuft of white stuffing remained stuck to his chin like a badge of shame.
Vincent pointed a single, ringed finger toward the massive brick hearth on the far side of the library, where an antique Persian runner lay spread before the cold iron grate.
"Bishop," Vincent commanded, his tone firm, clear, and unyielding. "Timeout."
The dog let out a low, pathetic whine—a sound so bizarre coming from a ninety-pound war animal that Frankie Vitucci nearly swallowed his unlit cigar. Bishop did not argue. He turned around, his tail tucked slightly between his haunches, and padded across the floorboards with his head down. He walked onto the hearth rug, turned around twice in a slow circle of utter humiliation, and sat down squarely facing the brick fireplace, his back turned to the conference table.
Lucy watched the execution of the sentence with clinical, unblinking scrutiny. She waited until the dog’s hindquarters were fully settled on the wool, then gave a single, firm nod of judicial approval.
"Good," Lucy muttered, pulling Captain Carrot back against her chest. "He has to think about what he did."
Across the table, the seven capos sat paralyzed, their expressions caught somewhere between hysterical bewilderment and existential terror. Sal, an enforcer who had spent twenty years breaking kneecaps in the South Side rail yards, looked at his cold espresso cup as though he were having a stroke. Marco, an accountant who managed seventy million dollars in untraceable offshore assets, rubbed his temples with trembling fingers, wondering if this entire scene was a hallucination brought on by lack of sleep.
Vincent turned back to Lucy. "Now, as for the victim," he said, gesturing toward the stuffed rabbit’s dangling ear and spilled interior. "Are you certified in emergency field medicine, Miss Bennett?"
Lucy’s brow furrowed beneath her blonde topknot. "No. I'm three."
"A technical limitation," Vincent conceded smoothly, his lips twitching beneath his stubble. "Nora."
May you like
In the doorway, Nora’s knees were trembling so hard she had to lean her shoulder against the doorjamb to keep from collapsing onto the floor. "Y-yes, Mr. Calder?"
"Bring the sewing kit from the pantry," Vincent ordered, not taking his eyes off the toddler. "We have an emergency surgical procedure on the schedule. The board meeting will take a recess."
