The Brother’s Keeper

Victor finally looked up from the ledger on the desk, offering me that warm, brotherly smile that had disarmed half the criminal underworld in Europe. But as his eyes locked onto mine, something in his expression flickered.

He noticed the dried mud on my boots. He noticed the bloodstain on the cuff of my coat. He noticed the absolute, chilling stillness in my posture.

“Marco?” Victor set the glass down slowly. “Is something wrong?”

I walked across the room, my footsteps slow and deliberate. I didn't reach for my gun. I didn't raise my voice. I simply stopped on the opposite side of the mahogany desk, looking down at the man who had shared my house, my bread, and my secrets.

“The Sicilian delegation went very well, Victor,” I said smoothly. “We secured the docks. We eliminated our rivals in Palermo. Everything is running like clockwork.”

Victor exhaled a subtle sigh of relief, leaning back in his leather chair. “Thank God. You had me worried. You look exhausted, brother. Sit down. Let me pour you a drink. Where’s Victoria? She said she was waiting up in the East Parlor for you.”

“Victoria is busy,” I replied.

“Busy with what?” Victor asked, his brow furrowing slightly.

“Packing,” I said.

Victor’s smile didn't vanish, but it stiffened around the edges—the microscopic micro-expression of a man realizing the trap he set had just sprung backward. “Packing? For where?”

“New Jersey,” I said softly.

The room became so quiet you could hear the rain tapping against the tall stained-glass windows overlooking the harbor. Victor’s eyes narrowed just a fraction, his hand drifting casually toward the lower drawer of the mahogany desk where a customized Sig Sauer rested beneath the false bottom.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Marco,” Victor said, his voice dropping all pretense of casual warmth, turning flat and professional.

“You know exactly what I’m talking about, Victor,” I said, leaning forward, resting both palms flat against the polished wood of the desk. “Three days ago, a four-year-old child walked barefoot through the rain to tell me her mother was missing. She told me her mother went downstairs to help Victoria pick wine. Except Mia didn't go to New Jersey. She went to the west wing sub-basement.”

Victor didn't flinch. He was a survivor, after all. He had spent years learning how to look a boss in the eye while driving a knife into his ribs.

“That little brat talks too much,” Victor said coldly.