Chapter Five: Blood Recognizes Blood
The Florida sky was bleeding purple when Vincent stepped off the porch of Thorne's dying little houseboat. The old detective's confession still hung in the air like gunpowder. Giovanni Moretti. His own father.
For the first time in a decade, Vincent felt something close to hollow—not rage, not grief. Just a cold kind of recognition. Like a wolf meeting its reflection in a frozen lake.
He boarded the red-eye back to Chicago, alone, head full of ghosts.
By the time he landed, Frankie was waiting for him at O'Hare, black Lincoln idling at the curb.
"You look like shit," Frankie said. "Bad news?"
Vincent slid into the passenger seat. "Family business."
Frankie didn't ask for more. He just drove, the way a friend drives when they know they don't want the answers.
As the city skyline clawed up out of the horizon, Vincent lit a cigarette with steady hands.
"Tell me about Luca," Vincent said finally. "What's he been up to since I left?"
Frankie hesitated, drumming his thick fingers on the steering wheel. "Luca's a shark. Smiles a lot, but never shows his teeth unless it's worth it. Been real chummy with your old man the past couple years. You think...?"
"I don't think," Vincent cut in softly. "I know. My father paid to have me locked away. Luca helped him tie the bow."
Frankie swore under his breath. "Jesus, Vin. That's bad blood."
Vin turned his face to the window. Snow was starting to fall again, soft and slow. "Blood's just water with a better publicist."
They didn't go to La Scala. Too many ears. Too many eyes. Instead, they went to Caravaggio's, a broken-down speakeasy under the Blue Line, where the only thing older than the whiskey was the wallpaper peeling like old skin.
Isabella was waiting there.
She stood when she saw Vincent, lips pursed, eyes sharper than the knives hidden in her boots.
"I read the files," she said without preamble. "The detective's pension, the off-the-books payments, the shell companies. Your father's fingerprints are everywhere."
Frankie blinked at her. "Who the hell is she?"
"Someone who knows how to burn down a house without ever lighting a match," Vincent said. "You trust me?"
Frankie looked at Vincent. Looked at Isabella. Then nodded. "Against my better judgment, yeah."
Good enough.
Vincent leaned across the table. "We don't just kill the old man. We ruin him. Publicly. Financially. We burn his empire to the ground while he's still alive to smell it."
Isabella smiled faintly, dangerous and electric. "Now you're speaking my language."