Chapter 6 - The Confession in the Dark
“Inside,” Logan said, stepping back and gesturing toward the grand study.
Vincent swallowed hard, adjusting his cashmere collar with fingers that barely trembled. He walked past Logan into the study, his eyes taking in the open lockbox on the mahogany desk—the ledgers, the wire transfer receipts, and Elena’s journals lying spread out like an open indictment.
Vincent stopped by the desk, looking down at the journals. A bitter, ironic chuckle escaped his throat.
“I should have burned those books years ago,” Vincent murmured, turning to face Logan as Logan shut the heavy oak doors behind them.
“You thought she was dead,” Logan said, his voice terrifyingly quiet. “You thought the car crash took care of the loose end. But you didn't have the stomach—or maybe you wanted to keep her locked away like a dirty secret, holding her children over her head like a guillotine.”
“She was a liability, Logan!” Vincent snapped, dropping the facade of the loving uncle as desperation bled into his tone. “She found the offshore accounts! She was going to go to the federal prosecutors, tear down everything your father built, everything I helped you build! I spared her life! I gave her a home in the woods!”
“You put her in a cage!” Logan roared, slamming his fist onto the mahogany desk so hard the heavy wood cracked. “You kept her prisoner, you terrified her every single day of her life, and when she tried to teach her daughters how to survive, you pushed her down the stairs!”
Vincent sneered, his age suddenly catching up to him, his face twisting into an ugly, venomous mask. “And what if I did? She was weak. Just like your father before her. Sentimentality destroys empires, Logan. Look at you—you’re risking a multi-billion-dollar syndicate over a dead woman and two brats you met yesterday!”
“They aren't brats,” Logan said. His voice dropped back to that dead, flat whisper that signaled the end of all debate. “They are my sister’s daughters. And they have her eyes.”
Vincent reached slowly inside his coat pocket, his fingers inching toward a small, snub-nosed revolver tucked into his belt holster. “You think your captains will back you over this? You think the Chicago council is going to let you execute a founding partner over a family dispute? If I go down, the whole board goes down with me, Logan. You’ll be fighting a civil war on three fronts by morning.”
“Let them try,” Logan said.
Before Vincent’s hand could clear his holster, Logan’s gun was already up, steady and centered on the bridge of Vincent’s nose.
The click of the hammer cocking sounded like a thunderclap in the silent study.
Vincent froze. His hand remained half-tucked inside his coat, his fingers trembling against the cold metal of his own gun.
“Drop it, Vincent,” Logan commanded.
Vincent stared down the barrel of the gun. He looked at Logan’s eyes—not angry, not shaking, but as cold and infinite as the winter ocean. He realized, with a sickening jolt of absolute terror, that there was no negotiation left. No deals to be made. No family loyalty to invoke.
Slowly, very slowly, Vincent pulled his empty hand out of his coat and let his arms fall to his sides.
“Do it,” Vincent whispered, his voice shaking. “Kill your uncle in cold blood. See how long you last on the throne.”
Logan didn't pull the trigger.
Instead, he lowered the gun by an inch, keeping his eyes locked on the older man.
“Killing you is too easy,” Logan said. “Death is a luxury for soldiers. You aren't a soldier, Vincent. You’re a thief and a coward.”
Logan hit the desk intercom button. “Marcus.”
The door opened instantly, Marcus standing in the frame with a pair of heavy steel zip-ties in his hands.
“Take him down to the lower cellar,” Logan ordered without looking away from his uncle. “Lock him in the reinforced vault. No phone, no light, no human contact. Let him sit in the dark and think about every ledger, every dollar, and every breath he stole from my sister.”
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“No,” Vincent hissed, panic finally breaking his composure as Marcus grabbed him by the expensive cashmere lapels. “Logan, you can't—I’m family! I’m your blood!”
“My blood died eight years ago,” Logan said coldly as Marcus dragged the struggling older man toward the door. “You’re just a ghost waiting for the dark.”
