Chapter 3 - The Mirror on Marble
The silence that fell over the study was so thick you could hear the tick of Vincent’s silver wristwatch against his cuff.
Renzo Moretti, a hardened veteran of two syndicate wars who had watched car bombs detonate without flinching, brought his hand violently to his mouth. A muffled, strangled squeak escaped his throat. His broad shoulders hitched as he fought a desperate, heroic battle against an overwhelming urge to howl with laughter. The two security guards by the door looked as though they were experiencing severe cardiac distress, their faces turning bright crimson, their eyes bulging as they stared resolutely at the ceiling molding, praying for divine intervention before their boss noticed their trembling chests.
Vincent leaned forward on the cream leather sofa, resting his elbows against his tailored black trousers. The movement was slow, fluid, and heavy with unspoken power.
He didn't blink. His dark, piercing eyes locked onto the three-foot-tall sovereign standing on his antique rug.
Mia didn't break character for a single second. The moment Vincent leaned forward, she leaned forward too, her little body tilting over her knees, her small arms clamped across her chest like an iron padlock. She maintained her furrowed brow, her round cheeks bunching up so tightly beneath her eyes that her pink ribbon bows quivered.
Vincent’s eyes flicked to Renzo.
The underboss took half a step back, staring at the floorboards, coughing into his fist with frantic dedication. Vincent turned his head back to the girl, the menacing stillness of his face unbroken, though a microscopic crease appeared at the corner of his left eye.
"Are you making fun of me, little girl?" Vincent’s voice was a low, resonant rumble—deep, gravelly, and dryly amused beneath a shell of iron discipline.
Mia let out an immediate, sunny giggle, breaking her terrifying scowl in an instant. She dropped her arms, took two steps closer to the sofa until her fluffy pink tulle brushed against Vincent’s Italian leather oxfords, and reached her hand upward toward his face.
"Yes!" Mia declared with complete, unapologetic honesty. She pointed a finger right between his eyes, her hazel eyes dancing with pure triumph. "You always make that funny face!"
To emphasize her point, Mia sucked in her cheeks, pulled her eyebrows down into her nose again, and shook her head with a deep, vibrating hum of toddler judgment.
At the entrance, the guard on the left completely lost his composure. He spun on his heel, turning his back to the room, burying his forehead into the dark walnut paneling as his shoulders shook with violent, silent convulsions. The other guard clamped his jaw so hard his teeth audibly clicked, staring at the marble floor with tears of suppressed hysteria leaking from his lashes.
Vincent stared at the girl in absolute, stunned disbelief. In forty years on this earth, thirty of them spent navigating the deadliest waters in North America, no human being had ever stood within arm's reach of him, laughed in his face, and told him his signature executioner's stare was "funny."
He sat back against the cream cushions, his large, tattooed hands resting flat on his knees. He pressed his lips tightly together, fighting the rebellious twitch that was currently attempting to turn the right corner of his mouth into an authentic smile.
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"Funny," Vincent murmured under his breath, his dark eyebrows lifting. "She thinks it's funny."
"It is funny!" Mia insisted, rocking back on her heels and grinning up at him as if they were sharing a private joke over a sandbox. "You look like a big grumpy bear!"
