Chapter 3 - The lockdown protocol
The Christmas gala ended exactly five minutes later.
Vincent did not raise his voice to clear the room. He simply gave a nod to his head of security, and within moments, the sprawling estate was emptied of politicians, associates, and friends. The bright cinematic lights of the grand hall were dimmed, leaving only the sharp glow of the security spotlights bleeding through the tall windows. The warmth of the party evaporated, replaced by a suffocating, icy tension.
Vincent escorted his mother to her private quarters on the second floor. The room was warm, filled with antique mahogany and the scent of old paper and lavender. He seated her in a plush armchair by the fire. Eleanor looked incredibly small against the heavy fabrics, her navy blouse seeming to swallow her frail shoulders.
“Drink this,” Vincent said, handing her a glass of water. His voice was rough, grounded, but utterly devoid of the warmth he usually reserved for her.
Eleanor took the glass with trembling hands. She did not look at him.
“I want a name, Mother,” Vincent said, standing by the fireplace, his massive frame blocking the light. His midnight-black tuxedo seemed to absorb the shadows in the room. “I want to know exactly what Celeste thinks she knows. And I want to know why my eighty-one-year-old mother is shaking over a ghost that’s been buried for twenty years.”
Eleanor closed her eyes. “Your father’s death was a tragedy, Vincent. You know this. The entire family knows this.”
“Then why did you ask who told her?” Vincent pressed, his American accent clipped, demanding absolute truth. “If it was just a heart attack, there is nothing to tell. What did you do to him?”
Eleanor looked up, her blue eyes shining with a complex emotion Vincent could not easily place. It wasn't just fear. It was calculation. “I protected you. That is all you ever need to know.”
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Vincent stared at her. The silence stretched between them, thick with decades of unspoken family history. He realized in that moment that the woman who had baked him pies, who had wiped blood off his knuckles when he was a teenager, was harboring a darkness that rivaled his own.
As he turned to leave the room, his sharp eyes caught a subtle gleam of metal behind the antique clock on the mantelpiece. He reached out and carefully moved the heavy brass clock aside. Tucked perfectly into the woodwork was a small, state-of-the-art audio transmitter. Someone inside his fortress had been listening to his mother’s every word.
