Chapter 4 - A brother in the shadows
Vincent left the transmitter exactly where it was and walked out, locking the heavy oak door behind him. He needed a weak link, and he knew exactly where to find it.
Arthur Belladonna was pacing nervously in his private suite in the east wing. As Vincent’s older brother, Arthur should have been the boss of the family, but he lacked the ruthless edge, the cold composure, the sheer magnetism required to rule. He was a soft man, entirely under the thumb of his beautiful, cunning wife.
Vincent kicked the door open. It slammed loudly against the wall.
Arthur jumped, dropping a stack of passports onto his bed. He looked at Vincent with wide, terrified eyes. His fair skin was pale, sweat dotting his forehead. Two large suitcases were already packed and sitting by the door.
“Vincent,” Arthur stammered, raising his hands defensively. “I didn’t know she was going to do that at the party. I swear to you, I told her to leave Eleanor alone.”
Vincent closed the door quietly behind him. He walked over to the bed, picking up the American passports. “You’re packing for a long trip, Arthur. The party just ended ten minutes ago.”
Arthur swallowed hard. “I’m taking Celeste to Europe. We need some space. It’s better for the family.”
“Celeste found something,” Vincent said, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through the floorboards. “She made a threat downstairs that suggests she dug up a grave she shouldn't have. Tell me what she found.”
Arthur let out a pathetic sob, sinking onto the edge of the mattress. “She didn't dig it up, Vincent. It was sent to her.”
Vincent stepped closer, his physical presence suffocating in the luxurious room. “What was sent to her?”
“A package. Delivered to her private attorney three days ago,” Arthur cried, tears spilling over his flushed cheeks. “It was a lockbox from the old Hamptons estate. The one our father used to keep under the floorboards. It had his journals in it, Vincent. His medical reports.”
Vincent’s mind raced. He remembered his father’s slow decline. The paranoia, the sudden fits of rage, the physical wasting away of a man who had once been as rugged and terrifying as Vincent was now.
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“Where is the box now?” Vincent whispered.
Arthur looked up, utterly defeated. “She didn't keep it here. She gave it back to her lawyer, Harrington. But Vincent... the postage stamp on that package. It wasn't from twenty years ago. The postmark was from last week.”
