Chapter 7 - The velvet snare
The winter night was bitter and dark as Vincent’s black SUV pulled up to a high-end residential building in the financial district. His men moved with silent, practiced efficiency, bypassing the doorman and riding the service elevator directly to the penthouse.
Harrington, a polished, high-priced corporate lawyer, was sitting in his plush living room, nursing a scotch and reading through a tablet when Vincent Belladonna walked through his front door.
The lawyer froze, the blood draining from his face. He knew exactly who Vincent was. Everyone in the city did.
Vincent walked over to the modern glass table and sat down across from the man. He rested his large hands on his knees, his gold cufflinks gleaming under the modern recessed lighting.
“You have a client,” Vincent said, his American accent smooth and terribly calm. “Celeste Belladonna. She gave you something to hold onto for her.”
Harrington swallowed hard, looking at the two massive men standing by the door. “Mr. Belladonna, attorney-client privilege is—”
“A myth,” Vincent interrupted gently. “Like a weak heart. Tell me where the documents are, Mr. Harrington. If you cooperate, you will walk out of here tonight, book a flight to Europe, and enjoy a very long, very comfortable retirement. If you do not, you will never leave this room.”
The lawyer trembled. He was a man of the law, not the streets. The terrifying, masculine gravity of Vincent Belladonna was not something he could argue against in a courtroom. With shaking hands, Harrington reached into his briefcase by the sofa, unlocking a false bottom, and pulled out a thick manila envelope.
He slid it across the glass table.
Vincent picked it up. He opened the flap and pulled out a stack of aged, yellowing papers. He recognized his father’s harsh, slanted handwriting immediately. There were lab reports, heavily redacted but clear in their conclusion: Thallium poisoning. Administered slowly over a period of months.
Vincent flipped to the final page of the journal. His father’s handwriting was frantic, deeply paranoid.
She’s doing it. I can taste it in the tea. I can see it in her eyes. The quiet little mouse is killing me. But I won't let her win. If I go down, she goes down. I’ve made arrangements.
May you like
Vincent closed the folder. His chest felt tight. He had secured the blackmail material, neutralizing Celeste’s threat, but the truth burned like acid in his veins.
He stood up, buttoning his tuxedo jacket. “Have a safe flight, Mr. Harrington.”
