Chapter 8 - The Godfather
Arthur Vance had spent thirty years cultivating respectability.
He chaired charities.
Funded hospitals.
Appeared beside governors.
He had also built a criminal enterprise using Moretti shipping routes as camouflage.
Paul was merely his administrator.
Vincent wanted war.
Elena wanted proof.
“Kill him and everyone calls him a respected judge murdered by a gangster.”
Vincent stared at her across his study.
“You have an alternative?”
“Make him confess.”
“That usually requires asking nicely.”
“You’re bad at that?”
“I’m told my conversational style can be intimidating.”
Elena smiled.
Vincent watched her.
The humor faded.
“You should leave Baltimore.”
“No.”
“Elena.”
“No.”
“You nearly died twice.”
“So did you.”
“That’s different.”
“Why?”
“Because I chose this life.”
She stepped closer.
“And you think I haven’t been choosing since table twelve?”
Vincent went silent.
Elena’s voice softened.
“You don’t get to protect me by deciding for me.”
His gaze dropped briefly to her lips.
Then returned to her eyes.
“That is becoming extremely inconvenient.”
“What is?”
“You.”
She almost smiled.
“Good.”
Vincent kissed her.
It wasn’t wild.
It was hesitant.
Almost careful.
Which surprised Elena more than anything.
She touched his jaw.
Then his phone rang.
They separated.
Vincent looked at the screen.
Sofia.
He answered.
His mother said only four words.
May you like
“Arthur knows about Elena.”
The line went dead.
