Chapter 5 - An Unlikely Negotiation
Vincent slowly raised his right hand.
It was a broad, powerful hand, covered in intricate dark ink that curled across his knuckles like iron wire. He didn't point, and he didn't raise his voice. He merely held his palm flat in the air, a simple, authoritative gesture that instantly cut through Clara’s frantic apologies like a razor through silk.
Clara silenced herself immediately, her jaw trembling, her fingers digging into the fabric of Mia’s dress.
Vincent stood up.
His six-foot-two frame unfolded from the cream leather with the smooth, terrifying grace of a panther rising from a rock. He towered over the kneeling maid and her daughter, his broad shoulders blocking out the streaming morning light from the high windows, his black suit falling into immaculate, unwrinkled lines. Clara instinctively leaned back, curling her body over Mia, ready to absorb whatever blow or venomous command was about to fall from his lips.
Instead of shouting, Vincent did something that made Renzo’s jaw drop three inches.
The Don of New York slowly, deliberately lowered himself to the floor.
He didn't take a knee like a man addressing a servant. He dropped into a deep, balanced crouch directly in front of the little girl, resting his forearms against his knees, bringing his dark, bearded face down until his eyes were perfectly level with Mia’s hazel-brown ones. The distance between them was less than twelve inches.
Clara froze, her breath locked in her throat, unable to comprehend the sight of the city’s most feared criminal kingpin sitting on his haunches like an older brother on a playground.
Mia, finally wriggling free from her mother’s grip, adjusted her ruffled shoulder straps with great dignity. Seeing Vincent down at her level, she immediately brightened. She cocked her head to the left, mirrored his crouch by planting her tiny hands on her knees, and raised her right eyebrow in an exact, brazen replica of his signature scowl.
Vincent’s dark eyes locked onto hers. The silence in the study was so absolute that the rustle of the trees outside sounded like an ocean wave.
A faint, microscopic twitch tugged at the corner of Vincent’s beard. He held her gaze for two, three, four agonizing seconds, his expression completely blank, before his deep baritone rumbled through the quiet room.
"So... you think you can do my face better than me?" Vincent asked. His voice was controlled, deep, and laced with an unexpected, dry playfulness that Clara had never imagined could exist in a man like him.
Mia didn't hesitate. She threw her head back with a triumphant sniff, crossed her chubby arms tightly over her chest, and gave him her masterpiece.
She dragged her eyebrows down into an impossibly fierce scowl, pursed her lips into a tiny, stubborn line, puffed her round cheeks with air, and tilted her chin with theatrical arrogance. She was the miniature Don, the ruler of the living room, absolute and uncompromising.
Vincent studied her face with the serious, analytical scrutiny of an art collector appraising a priceless masterpiece.
Then, the monster broke.
Without warning, Vincent crossed his massive, tattooed arms across his chest. He lowered his dark eyebrows into a comically exaggerated scowl, puffed his bearded cheeks out with air, and cocked his chin to the exact same ridiculous angle as the little girl, staring right back at her with absurd intensity.
Renzo let out a choked snort, turned completely around, and shoved his face into his forearm, his entire body shaking violently as he tried to contain a roar of laughter. The security guards at the door were biting their lips so hard they were in danger of drawing blood.
Clara sat on the floor, her mouth open, staring at her employer in utter, disbelieving shock.
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Vincent dropped the face, his dark eyes sparkling with a rare, devastatingly handsome half-smile that completely erased twenty years of brutality from his features. He leaned two inches closer to Mia, his deep voice carrying a tone of mock-serious gravity.
"Then you're hired... as my new boss."
