Chapter 5 - The silver tongue
Celeste had not been allowed to change out of her ruined dress.
Vincent’s men had escorted her to the library on the ground floor, stripping her of her phone and purse. She paced the length of the Persian rug, the ruined silver gown trailing behind her like a dirty shadow. When the heavy wooden doors clicked open, she stopped, lifting her chin in an immediate show of defiance.
Vincent stepped into the room, locking the door behind him. He unbuttoned his suit jacket slowly, his eyes never leaving hers.
“You have five seconds to explain exactly what you meant out there,” Vincent said, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through the floorboards.
Celeste scoffed, though her hands were shaking slightly. “You think you can just slap me around and lock me in a room, Vincent? My husband is your brother. Half this family’s legitimate businesses are in my name.”
“Four,” Vincent said, checking the luxury watch on his wrist.
“You think your precious, frail little mother is a saint?” Celeste taunted, pacing closer to him. “You think she’s just an old woman who needs protecting from the big bad wolf? She’s the wolf, Vincent.”
“Three.”
“I found the lockbox in the old estate in the Hamptons,” Celeste spat out, the words rushing from her mouth as she realized he was not going to play games. “The one your father kept hidden under the floorboards of his study. I found his journals, Vincent. I found the medical reports.”
Vincent stopped. He didn’t show a flicker of emotion, but his heart hammered violently against his ribs. “What medical reports?”
Celeste smiled, a wicked, triumphant expression returning to her beautiful face. “The ones detailing the heavy metals building up in his bloodstream over six months. He wasn’t dying of a weak heart. He was being poisoned. And the only person who cooked his meals, who poured his wine, who was alone with him every single night in that house, was Eleanor.”
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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“You have proof?” Vincent asked, his voice dead flat.
“I have the original documents,” Celeste said, crossing her arms, her diamonds glinting aggressively in the library’s dim light. “Hidden away where your thugs will never find them. If anything happens to me, if I don’t check in with my lawyer by tomorrow morning, those documents go directly to the Commission. The Five Families will know that the great Belladonna matriarch murdered her own boss.”
