Chapter 6
Ten minutes later, the grand study was bathed in the bright golden light of the mid-morning sun.
Sitting behind the massive mahogany desk was Victor Vance—a slick, fifty-year-old senior envoy for the Falcone crime family. Vance wore an expensive grey suit, a silk tie, and a arrogant, self-satisfied smirk. He had come to deliver a hostile ultimatum regarding the harbor shipping lines, believing that the Castalano family was vulnerable following recent municipal port audits.
Standing near the towering floor-to-ceiling windows, his broad back to the room, was Vincent Castalano. He held a crystal tumbler of water, his black wool suit jacket accentuating his muscular shoulders, the black rose tattoos on his neck dark against his skin.
Renzo Moretti stood near the mahogany double doors, his arms crossed over his charcoal suit, his eyes locked onto Vance with cold, predatory discipline.
"Carmine Falcone is very firm on this matter, Castalano," Vance spoke, his voice dripping with condescending arrogance as he tapped a gold-plated pen against his briefcase. "The East River docks belong to the Falcone syndicate now. If you attempt to dock your cargo ships at Pier 9 tomorrow morning, we will ensure the port authorities impound your entire fleet. You have until noon to sign the territorial waiver."
Vincent did not turn around immediately. He took a slow sip of his water, his sharp jawline setting like iron, a deadly silence filling the vast study.
Suddenly, the quiet intensity of the confrontation was interrupted by the soft clicking of tiny shoes.
Mia strolled through the open side door of the study, carrying her stuffed bunny and her plastic stethoscope, her pastel-blue princess dress fluttering around her legs, her pink-and-blue hair ribbons bouncing in the light. She walked straight past Renzo, oblivious to the high-stakes syndicate negotiation underway.
Victor Vance’s smirk instantly vanished into a look of irritation. "What is a child doing in a high-level briefing? Castalano, control your domestic staff."
Vincent turned around slowly. His dark eyes burned with a sudden, terrifying fury that made the air in the room freeze.
Before Vincent could speak, three-year-old Mia marched straight up to Victor Vance’s chair. She stopped beside his expensive grey trousers, stared up at his arrogant face, and pointed her plastic stethoscope directly at his gold-plated pen.
Mia tilted her golden head, her expressive brown eyes narrowing into a sharp, curious scowl.
"Your pen is red!" Mia announced loudly, her innocent voice echoing through the study. "It has a tiny red light that goes blink, blink, blink!"
Vance’s face instantly drained of all color. His hand trembled violently as he attempted to pull the gold-plated pen back into his coat pocket.
"What did you say, little girl?" Vincent’s deep baritone cut through the room like a steel blade.
Vincent moved with blinding, predatory speed. He closed the fifteen-foot distance across the marble floor in two massive strides, his broad hand shooting out and grabbing Vance’s wrist with bone-crushing force.
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Vincent ripped the gold-plated pen from Vance's fingers, unscrewing the cap under the golden sunlight. Inside the casing lay a microscopic, high-frequency digital wiretap—a covert recording device designed to transmit live audio directly to Falcone's intelligence team.
Vance let out a strangled gasp of pure terror, backed against his chair, his body shivering as he realized his treason had been exposed by a three-year-old child in a princess dress.
