Chapter 8 - THE WHISPER OF THE VIPER
The paper slipped from Del’s fingers.
It drifted to the floor like a dry leaf.
“Vincent?” she whispered.
The word tasted like ashes.
Vincent Marchetti.
Sloan’s uncle.
The elder statesman of the family who had sat at their wedding table and toasted her health with vintage Barolo.
The man who had hugged her after her mother died.
“Why would he do that?” Del cried, grabbing Sloan’s arm. “I was an emergency room nurse! I never touched his business! I never asked for a cent of his money!”
Sloan looked down at her hand gripping his sleeve.
He placed his palm over hers.
“Because you made me human, Del.”
His voice was quiet, hollowed out by three years of regret.
“Before I married you, I was Vincent’s weapon. I signed every execution order he put on my desk. I expanded the docks through blood and fire. But after I met you... I started refusing contracts. I started moving our assets into legitimate logistics.”
Sloan’s jaw hardened.
“Vincent saw his empire slipping into the light. He knew as long as you were beside me, he couldn't control me. So he manufactured a medical catastrophe to destroy your soul.”
Del covered her face with both hands.
A wild, ragged sob tore from her throat.
Three years.
Three years of waking up in cold sweat, seeing the face of that elderly cancer patient who had died on her shift.
Three years of believing she was negligent.
Three years of scrubbing toilets and serving cheap eggs because she thought she didn't deserve to hold a stethoscope ever again.
“I hated myself,” she weeped against her palms. “I hated myself so much, Sloan.”
Sloan dropped to his knees before the chaise lounge.
He pulled her hands away from her face.
He pulled her into his chest, wrapping his arms around her trembling body, burying his face in the crook of her neck.
“I know,” he whispered, his own voice cracking. “I know, sweetheart. But you didn't kill him. You saved thousands of lives. And last night, you saved Cora.”
Del buried her face in his shoulder, gripping his sweater, letting the tears soak through the black wool.
All the walls she had built around her heart for thirty-six months crumbled into dust.
She had spent three years running from the mob boss.
She had forgotten that before he was a boss, he had been the boy who pulled her out of a burning car when they were twenty-one.
A knock came at the door.
Bishop stepped inside, his expression grim.
“Sloan. Don Vance’s jet just landed at Logan. But he’s not coming alone.”
Sloan didn't release Delphine.
He kept one arm wrapped securely around her waist.
“Who is with him?”
“Vincent,” Bishop said.
Del stiffened in Sloan’s arms.
Sloan’s eyes turned to cold, polished steel.
“Where are they meeting?” Sloan asked.
“The harbor warehouse at Pier 9,” Bishop replied. “Vincent called a full council summit. He claims you have gone rogue, attacked Chicago’s princess, and violated the syndicate treaty. He’s calling for a vote of no confidence to strip you of the Marchetti chair.”
“A vote of no confidence,” Sloan repeated softly.
A terrifying smile touched his lips.
“Does my uncle think this family is a democracy?”
Sloan stood up, kissing Del’s forehead with tender reverence.
“Stay here with Dr. Alva. The perimeter has forty men with heavy artillery. Nobody enters this house.”
Del grabbed his wrist.
“Sloan, it’s an ambush. Vincent wouldn't call a council meeting unless he already bought the votes.”
Sloan looked down at her.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a heavy gold signet ring: the crest of the Marchetti founding patriarch.
He slid it onto his right pinky finger.
“Vincent bought the council with money,” Sloan said, his voice echoing with absolute authority. “I bought this city with blood. Let’s see which currency they prefer.”
He turned toward the door.
May you like
“Bishop. Ready the convoy.”
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