Chapter 4 - the shadow over the harbor
By 4:00 PM, the sky over New York Harbor turned a deep indigo as rain began to fall against the glass windows of the Turner estate.
The subterranean boardroom beneath the mansion was thick with cigar smoke and the heavy tension of ten senior Mafia captains gathered around a long walnut table. Sitting at the head of the table in his charcoal-gray suit was Vincent, his hands folded calmly over the dark wood.
Sitting to his right was Marcus Turner, holding a thick leather folder containing the new shipping contracts.
Marcus looked at the gathered captains and spoke aloud, his voice relaxed and arrogant, believing Vincent could only read lips when people faced him directly:
"The deaf Don will sign whatever I put in front of him, as usual," Marcus sneered softly to Captain Carmine sitting beside him, keeping his mouth turned away from Vincent's line of sight. "Once the contracts are signed, we finalize the transfer of the Brooklyn docks to the Vance family."
Captain Carmine smirked into his whisky glass, whispering back: "And what about Dr. Vance? He looked panicked upstairs."
"The maid's kid found a loose piece of wax," Marcus muttered under his breath, turning a page. "Vance is going down there tonight to put a fresh seal in his ear while he sleeps. Vincent won't know a thing."
Sitting at the head of the table, Vincent heard every single word with crystal clarity.
His broad chest remained steady, his expression completely unreadable. For thirty-seven years, these men had spoken behind his back, mocked his silence, and stolen his father's legacy, assuming his world was devoid of sound.
Vincent reached for the gold fountain pen on the table.
He didn't sign the contract. Instead, he uncapped the pen, drove the steel nib straight into the leather folder, and slammed his palm onto the walnut table with a deafening CRACK that made every captain in the room jump out of their seats!
The entire boardroom fell into dead silence.
Vincent leaned forward, his piercing eyes locking directly onto Marcus's pale face. He didn't use sign language. He spoke in a deep, thunderous, gravelly voice that echoed off the stone walls like a cannon shot:
"The Brooklyn docks stay with the Turner family, Marcus."
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Marcus dropped his pen, his face draining of all color as he stared at Vincent in absolute, terrifying horror. "Vincent... you... you can speak?"
"I can speak," Vincent growled, his voice carrying lethal authority. "And I can hear every lie you've whispered in this room for twenty years."
