Chapter 3 - The Broken Glass and the Crown
The autumn winds began to howl against the reinforced glass of the Corvino estate, stripping the amber leaves from the ancient oaks that lined the private drive. Inside the mansion, however, the climate was controlled down to the exact degree—sterile, quiet, and suffocatingly luxurious.
Arya had been gone for three days in New York City attending a bridal expo and high-end charity galas. She hadn't called once, her communication reduced to a single text message sent two nights prior: In Manhattan with the girls. Don't wait up.
Vincent hadn't expected her to call. Their engagement was a business merger signed on expensive stationery, nothing more. Yet, as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long, bruised shadows across the Persian rugs in his bedroom, a bitter loneliness gnawed at his gut. He was a prisoner in his own palace, guarded by men who feared him and tended to by a staff that whispered behind his back.
The door pushed open without a knock.
Vincent expected Tessa, but instead, a heavy, reeking wave of expensive bourbon and stale cigarette smoke rolled into the room.
It was Marcus, one of Dominic’s younger enforcers—a hot-headed punk in his early twenties who had been given gate duty because he couldn't be trusted with actual collection routes. Marcus was slurring his words, his eyes bloodshot and erratic as he leaned against the doorframe, a half-empty bottle of whiskey gripped in his fist.
"Vince!" Marcus barked, laughing stupidly as he dragged his boots across the pristine hardwood floor, leaving trails of mud. "Hey, boss man! How's the view from down there? Must be nice, huh? Never having to stand up when your legs feel like lead."
Vincent’s blood ran ice-cold, instantly boiling into a lethal, incandescent rage. His hands curled into tight fists against the duvet. "Marcus. You're drunk on duty. Get the hell out of my room before I have Dominic strip your piece and throw you out on the highway."
Marcus snorted, stumbling forward until he reached the edge of the bed. He looked down at Vincent with a sneer of pure, unfiltered contempt—the kind of disrespect only a coward shows to a tiger whose claws have been clipped.
"Oh, shut up, old man," Marcus spat, swaying on his feet. "You think you're still the boss? You're a cripple! You're lying in your own filth while Arya's out in the city partying with guys who can actually dance! Everyone downstairs is laughing at you, Vince. You're finished."
Before Marcus could raise the whiskey bottle to take another swig, a blur of motion swept in from the doorway.
Tessa stepped between Marcus and the bed. She had a bucket of soapy water and a sponge in her hands, having just finished cleaning the adjoining bathroom. Her face was set in a mask of cold, terrifying fury.
"Get out of this room right now," Tessa said, her voice shaking with restrained adrenaline.
Marcus blinked, staring down at her in disbelief. "What did you say to me, you little hospital maid? Get out of my way before I—"
"I said get out!" Tessa snapped, her voice cracking like a whip. She didn't cower; she shoved her hand directly against Marcus's chest with surprising, explosive force, catching the drunk enforcer off-balance.
Marcus stumbled backward, swearing loudly, his foot catching on the edge of the Persian rug. He flailed wildly, losing his balance completely, and crashed heavily into the mahogany bedside table.
Crash!
The heavy crystal water pitcher, the ceramic medication cup, and a framed photograph of Vincent and Arya shattered into a thousand jagged pieces across the floor. Marcus hit the ground hard, howling in pain as a shard of glass sliced open his palm.
"You bitch!" Marcus roared, scrambling up on his knees, his face red with drunken humiliation. He raised his heavy boot to kick out at Tessa.
Vincent snapped.
In a fraction of a second, fueled by an adrenaline rush he hadn't felt in months, Vincent gripped the heavy metal trapeze bar overhead with both hands. With a ferocious roar that tore from the depths of his chest, he hauled his entire upper body off the mattress, swinging his dead legs outward with brute, unbridled force.
His booted heel caught Marcus squarely in the side of the head with the sound of a baseball bat hitting a watermelon.
Marcus let out a stunned gasp, his eyes rolling back into his head, and collapsed onto the shattered glass, completely unconscious.
Silence fell over the room like a falling safe.
Vincent lowered himself back onto the mattress, his chest heaving, sweat beading across his forehead, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He stared at the unconscious enforcer bleeding onto the rug.
Tessa stood frozen for three seconds, her knuckles white as she clutched her sponge. Then, slowly, she turned her head and looked up at Vincent. Her chest was rising and falling rapidly.
"Are you... are you okay?" she whispered, her voice trembling slightly.
Vincent looked down at his own legs—lifeless, dead weights that had somehow delivered a knockout blow purely through the violent rotation of his torso. Then he looked up at Tessa.
"He broke the water pitcher," Vincent said, his voice deadly calm, though his heart was hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird.
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Tessa stared at him. A tiny, nervous twitch played at the corner of her mouth, fighting a battle between horror and hysterical laughter. Suddenly, she let out a shaky breath, a sound that was half-gasp, half-chuckle.
"Well," Tessa said, looking down at the bloody, unconscious punk bleeding onto the Persian rug. "I guess I'll need a bigger mop."
