Vincenzo POV:
For two weeks, I stayed locked inside Rocco's compound.
The days blurred into long nights of planning and mapping out the dismantling of my own empire.
In the dim light of the bunker, I scrolled through Julian's social media feed on a burner phone.
The rat was getting bold.
His latest post featured a picture of him posing on the boarding stairs of the Salvatore family's private Gulfstream jet.
The smug caption read: "Reaching new heights in business."
It was not his posture that held my attention, but the reflection in the jet's polished window: the unmistakable silhouette of Lucia taking the photo.
Beside me, Rocco slammed his fist onto the metal table, rattling the stacked ammunition boxes.
"Let me put a bullet in his skull tonight, Vincenzo," Rocco growled, his dark eyes locked on the glowing screen. "He is parading around in your territory, eating right off your plate."
I calmly locked the phone and tossed it aside, where it clattered against the concrete floor.
"His death is too simple a solution. It misses the point."
Leaning back in my chair, I stared up at the damp ceiling.
"Lucia's ignorance is the true offense. She gave him the crown. Now, she must be made to wear the ashes."
I stood up, the legs of my chair scraping harshly against the floor, and grabbed my heavy wool coat.
"I need to retrieve my mother's effects from the penthouse," I said, slipping my arms into the sleeves.
I shot a cold glance at Rocco.
"Especially the emerald ring. It belongs to the Salvatore legacy, not a corporate front."
Rocco gave a curt nod, snatching his sidearm from the table and signaling for a heavily armed crew to follow us.
The drive into Manhattan was a tense blur, the city lights reflecting like smeared paint off the black hood of our armored SUV.
The private elevator ride up to the penthouse was silent.
I keyed in my master access code, heard the satisfying click of the lock, and pushed the heavy mahogany doors open.
The sharp scent of an unfamiliar, expensive cologne hit me instantly.
It was not mine.
At that moment, Lucia walked out of the kitchen, freezing the second she saw me standing in the foyer.
"Vincenzo," her voice was tight-a mixture of guilt and feigned annoyance. "You could have called. We are just... going over quarterly reports."
Before I could respond, a loud crash echoed from the hallway leading to my private vault.
A cold dread settled in my stomach.
Without a word, I bypassed her, my boots thudding against the hardwood floor.
I shoved the heavy vault door open, the hinges groaning.
The interior was a disaster.
Encrypted hard drives were scattered across the floor, and my mother's velvet display cases had been overturned.
My gaze snapped to the center pedestal, the heart of the vault.
There stood Julian, his face now pale.
In his violently trembling hands, he held the shattered pieces of my mother's emerald heirloom.
The antique gold band was bent, and the massive, flawless green stone was cracked into a dozen jagged fragments.
His kneecaps struck the steel floor with a deadened thud. The fabric at the seam of his trousers tore, but he seemed not to register the pain, his head instinctively bowing.
He burst into loud, pathetic sobs, the illusion of his power shattering.
"I am so, so sorry, Mr. Salvatore!"
He crawled toward my boots, begging for a mercy he would not receive.
"I was just looking for Lucia's tax documents! I slipped, I swear to God. It was an accident, I swear on my life!"
I didn't look at him; instead, I stared down at the broken, scattered pieces of my mother's legacy, feeling the last thread of my humanity snap.
