Chapter 7 - The Final Vendetta
By midnight, the storm had passed, leaving behind a cold, clear night sky filled with stars.
The estate had been cleaned with terrifying speed. Marco’s men had disposed of the bodies, repaired the gates, and reinforced the perimeter with thirty additional heavy guards.
In the study, Vincent sat at his desk while Dr. Evans bandaged a cut along his jawline. Marco stood nearby, his face dark with suppressed fury.
“Mangano has gone too far,” Marco said, pacing the room. “He attacked your home, Vincent. He sent hitmen after a child. The other families won’t stand by him after this. If we strike now, no one will lift a finger to help him.”
Vincent looked at his reflection in the dark windowpane. The time for warnings was over. Don Salvatore Mangano had tried to murder his family, and in Vincent’s world, there was only one response to such an transgression.
“Where is he?” Vincent asked coldly.
“He’s hiding at his fortified estate in Long Island,” Marco reported. “He has at least twenty men guarding the grounds. He knows he failed, and he’s terrified.”
Vincent stood up, pushing the doctor’s hands away. He put on a clean black suit jacket, his movements methodical, precise, and absolute.
“Gather the entire strike force,” Vincent ordered. “Every soldier, every captain. We are going to Long Island.”
“Vincent,” a quiet voice spoke from the doorway.
Vincent turned. Carmen was standing there, wearing a black silk robe. She looked pale, but her eyes were steady and filled with a deep, profound understanding of the man he was.
Vincent motioned for Marco and the doctor to leave. When the door closed, he walked over to her, his expression softening.
“You shouldn't be out of bed,” Vincent said gently.
“I heard what you said to Marco,” Carmen whispered. She reached out, placing her hand gently against his cheek, her thumb smoothing over the fresh bandage on his jaw. “Are you going to kill him?”
“He tried to take you from me, Carmen,” Vincent said quietly. “He tried to kill Isabella. As long as he breathes, neither of you will ever be safe.”
Carmen closed her eyes, resting her forehead against his chest. She could feel the steady, powerful beat of his heart under his suit.
“I lost my husband three years ago, Vincent,” Carmen whispered, tears brimming in her eyes. “I lived in darkness, in fear, every single day. Then you walked into that pantry. You gave my daughter her life back. You gave me my life back.”
She looked up, meeting his dark, intense gaze.
“Don’t let him take you from us,” she pleaded softly. “Promise me you’ll come back.”
Vincent raised his hand, cupping the back of her neck, bringing her face close to his. For the first time in thirty years, the cold, unyielding Don of the Torino family allowed himself to feel complete, unadulterated devotion.
He leaned down and kissed her—a deep, fierce, possessive kiss that carried all the unspoken promises, all the hidden longing he had carried since the night he found her daughter eating from his trash.
When he pulled back, Carmen was breathing softly, her eyes shining in the dim light.
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“I always keep my promises,” Vincent whispered.
An hour later, a convoy of ten black armored SUVs pulled out of the estate gates, tearing through the dark night toward Long Island. The final retribution had begun.
