Chapter 8 - The Shadow at the Docks
Three weeks passed.
The news of the sudden, silent shift in the city’s power balance had sent shockwaves through the local business community.
The Daily Chronicle had run a front-page photograph of Julian Marzano walking out of the courthouse alongside Simone Bellamy, her hand tucked securely into his arm, under the headline: MARZANO ANNOUNCES ENGAGEMENT TO DAUGHTER OF FORMER JUDGE WALTER BELLAMY.
Matteo Vance had gone completely silent. His father’s political committee had released a brief statement claiming Matteo was "taking a temporary leave of absence to manage personal family matters," but everyone in the city knew the truth: the District Attorney’s office was actively reviewing three sets of financial books.
Simone sat at a long oak table in the private archives of the City Library, her bandaged hand now down to a small, neat pink scar beneath her thumb.
She was working on a collection of nineteenth-century shipping ledgers, her fingers deftly turning the fragile, yellowed pages.
The library doors opened softly.
Simone didn't look up, expecting her assistant, until a shadow fell across her work desk.
She looked up.
Matteo Vance stood on the other side of the table.
He didn't look like the polished politician from the wedding. His tuxedo was gone, replaced by a rumpled dark coat. His eyes were bloodshot, surrounded by dark circles, his jaw covered in three days of unwashed stubble.
“Simone,” he whispered, his voice hoarse and desperate.
Simone immediately slid her chair back three inches, her hand hovering over the internal security button mounted under the desk edge. “You shouldn't be here, Matteo. Julian’s security team is stationed in the lobby.”
“Fuck Julian’s security!” Matteo hissed, stepping closer, his fingers digging into the edge of her wooden desk. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done to me?! My father dropped me from the Senate campaign! The state prosecutor is freezing my personal accounts tomorrow morning!”
“You did that to yourself,” Simone said coldly, her fingers finding the red button. “You stole from my father. You helped Deline drain his medical trust.”
“It was a loan!” Matteo spat, his face twisting into an ugly mask of desperation. “We were going to replace it after the wedding! Deline told me you wouldn't check the line items!”
He reached across the table, his hand shooting out to grab her coat collar. “You’re going to fix this, Simone! You’re going to tell the DA that it was a family misunderstanding! You’re going to tell them you authorized those transfers!”
Before his fingers could touch her wool coat, a hand clamped around Matteo’s wrist like an iron vise.
The pressure was so sudden and intense that Matteo let out a sharp, pathetic yelp of pain, his knees buckling slightly.
Julian stood behind him.
He hadn't made a sound as he crossed the carpeted library floor. He was wearing his heavy dark coat, his face completely devoid of emotion, his hazel eyes burning with a cold, terrifying light.
“Touch her again,” Julian said, his voice barely louder than a whisper, “and I will drop you into the harbor with forty pounds of chain around your ankles.”
Matteo whimpered, his fingers opening instantly, trying to pull his arm free from Julian’s grip. “Marzano... wait... I was just talking to her! We’re family!”
Julian didn't answer with words.
He twisted his wrist three degrees to the left.
The sound of a soft, sickening pop echoed through the quiet archive room, followed by Matteo’s sharp, agonizing scream as his shoulder dislocated from its socket.
Julian let go.
Matteo dropped onto the carpet like a sack of wet laundry, clutching his arm, tears streaming down his unwashed face.
Two of Julian’s men stepped out from behind the book stacks, grabbing Matteo by his coat collar and dragging him silently toward the service exit like a piece of trash.
Julian didn't watch them leave.
He pulled a fresh handkerchief from his pocket, wiped his hand carefully, and set it on the table.
Then he looked at Simone.
“Are you injured?” he asked.
Simone looked at the red button under her desk, then at the man who had just broken a politician’s son in three seconds without taking his eyes off her.
Her heart was pounding, but it wasn't fear that was making her chest heave.
It was something entirely different.
“I’m fine,” Simone said softly.
May you like
Julian looked at her hand—the small pink scar near her thumb.
“Good,” he said. “Because the tailor is waiting at the house. Your wedding dress arrives at four o'clock.”
