Chapter 4 - the doctor’s ledger
Victor hung up the phone without another word.
He didn't yell. He didn't smash anything. That was what made him terrifying to the underworld; the colder he became, the closer his enemies were to their graves.
He stood up, tucked the pistol back into his jacket, and looked down at Celeste. "You're confined to the west wing. Step outside onto the lawn, and my snipers won't ask questions."
"You're making a mistake, Victor," Celeste warned, rising slowly. "You think you're hunting an outside enemy. The rot in this house started long before I ever put a ring on my finger."
Victor turned his back on her and walked out.
Twenty minutes later, Victor's black sedan pulled up outside a private clinic on the north side of the city. Rain had begun to slick the asphalt, reflecting the amber streetlamps. Luca kept the engine idling while Victor walked through the clinic’s back entrance, bypassing the night nurse with a single flash of his signet ring.
Dr. Paul Marcus was in his private office, packing files into a leather briefcase. When the door opened and Victor walked in, the doctor dropped a folder, scattering patient charts across the rug.
"Victor," Dr. Marcus stammered, pulling off his gold-rimmed glasses with trembling hands. "What... what brings you here at midnight? Is there an emergency with your fiancée?"
Victor closed the door behind him and locked it. He walked over to the desk, pulled a silver fountain pen from the doctor’s desk caddy, and balanced it between his fingers.
"You signed a death certificate for Father Thomas today," Victor said calmly.
Dr. Marcus stiffened. "Yes. The poor priest fell down the stone steps behind the chapel. Tragic accident."
"Paulie told me the fall happened two weeks ago," Victor noted, leaning forward. "Why did it take fourteen days to sign the paper, Paul?"
"Parish paperwork... bureaucracy with the Archdiocese—"
Victor slammed the heavy fountain pen down into the desk so hard the gold nib bent and snapped. "Don't lie to me. I've known you since I was ten years old. You set my broken arm when I fell from the orchard trees. My father paid for your daughter's medical school in Switzerland."
Dr. Marcus sank back into his leather chair, his fair skin turning ghostly pale. "Victor, you don't understand the pressure I was under."
"Who pressured you?"
"It wasn't Celeste," Dr. Marcus breathed, his hands shaking violently on his lap. "She only delivered the payment."
Victor frowned. "If Celeste delivered the money, who wrote the check?"
Dr. Marcus reached into his briefcase and pulled out a certified carbon copy of a cashier's check issued three days ago. He slid it across the mahogany desk toward Victor.
Victor looked down at the signature line.
The check was drawn from a private trust in Boston. And the signature at the bottom did not belong to a rival mafia don or a corrupt politician.
It belonged to Helena Bellandi.
May you like
Victor's mother. The woman they had buried in the family mausoleum twelve years ago.
***
