Chapter 8 - the silver locket
Vincent stood motionless under Dominic’s suffocating gaze. The old consigliere adjusted the cuffs of his charcoal suit, his expression smoothing back into a mask of polite professional detachment.
"A doctor's bribe?" Vincent echoed softly. "From thirty years ago? Dominic, Julian dealt with dozens of corrupt physicians to keep our soldiers out of public emergency rooms. An old slip of paper proves nothing about this girl's blood."
"It proves Julian paid Dr. Harrison Vance fifty thousand dollars the morning after my father was executed," Dominic said, stepping forward until he was less than two feet from the advisor. "And you were the one who recommended Vance to the family, weren't you, Vincent?"
Vincent didn't blink. Not a single muscle in his ancient, wrinkled face betrayed fear. "I was your father’s legal counsel. I vetted every doctor, every lawyer, and every accountant on our payroll. If Julian abused my contacts, that was his failure, not mine."
"We will see," Dominic said quietly. "Where is Dr. Vance now?"
"Dead," Vincent replied instantly. "Died of a stroke in an assisted living facility four years ago. His records were shredded in accordance with medical privacy laws."
Elena stepped forward from behind Dominic. "Not all of them."
Vincent’s eyes darted toward her, cold and dismissive. "Excuse me?"
"Dr. Vance didn't shred everything," Elena said, her voice clear and resonant in the quiet study. "My mother kept a personal safe deposit box at the Manhattan Trust on 5th Avenue. Before she died, she gave me the key and a handwritten letter. She told me that Dr. Vance had made a second copy of the hospital delivery log from that night—because he knew Julian would eventually try to eliminate anyone who could link him to Sofia’s disappearance."
Vincent’s jaw tightened imperceptibly. A tiny vein along his temple gave a single, involuntary throb. "A safe deposit box? Registered under what name? Your mother had three aliases."
Elena looked directly into Vincent’s eyes. "Under the name *Clara Vercelli*."
Dominic spun toward Elena. "Clara used our family name?"
"Only for that box," Elena explained. "She said Donna Maria authorized it personally with the bank president in 1994. The box contains Sofia’s hospital discharge bracelet and a silver locket that belonged to her."
Dominic’s breathing turned ragged. A silver locket.
When Sofia turned sixteen, Dominic had bought her a silver oval locket in Florence with his first cut of the waterfront revenue. He had engraved the inside himself with an amateur jeweler's chisel: *Sempre con te, Nico.* Always with you, Nico.
"Mateo!" Dominic shouted toward the hall.
The security chief appeared in the doorway immediately, his coat damp from locking Vivienne in the cellar. "Boss?"
"Prepare the armored Suburban. We're going to Manhattan Trust. Now."
"Dominic, it's two o'clock in the morning," Vincent interjected, stepping into Dominic's path, his voice urgent. "The bank is closed. The streets are crawling with Falcone scouts. Going into midtown right now is reckless! If the capos see you rushing off into the night with an unverified maid, it will look like panic!"
Dominic placed his heavy hand on Vincent’s shoulder. His fingers clamped down with enough pressure to grind the collarbone beneath the fine wool.
"I own forty percent of Manhattan Trust, Vincent," Dominic said, his voice terrifyingly calm. "The vault opens when I tell it to open. And if I find that locket... if I find proof that my sister was alive while you stood beside my father and told me she was buried in Geneva..."
Dominic leaned in close, his breath hot against the old man's ear.
"...I will hang you from the grand chandelier with your own silk tie."
Dominic released his grip. Vincent stumbled back half a step, massaging his shoulder, his gray eyes darkening with hidden malice.
"I will accompany you," Vincent said, recovering his composure. "As family counsel, it is my duty to inspect the chain of custody on any legal documentation."
"No," Dominic barked. "You stay here. You keep the estate locked down. If a single person leaves this property without my word, shoot them on sight. Mateo, you and four men on the Suburban. Elena, get your coat."
Ten minutes later, the heavy black armored SUV tore down the gravel driveway of the Vercelli estate, its headlights cutting through the blinding rain.
Inside the study, Vincent stood alone by the dark mahogany desk.
He stared down at the open strongbox, at the tarnished brass key, and at the faded birth certificate.
Slowly, Vincent reached into his inner jacket pocket and pulled out a sleek, encrypted satellite phone. He dialed a ten-digit number from memory and held the receiver to his ear.
May you like
The line clicked on the second ring.
"He's heading to the 5th Avenue vault," Vincent whispered in rapid Italian. "The girl has the key. Intercept the Suburban before they reach the bridge. And this time... leave no survivors."
