Last Chapter: Blood in the Velluto
"Do it," Giovanni rasped, voice shaking but eyes hard. "It's the only way this ends."
Vincent raised the Glock, staring down the barrel at the man who taught him how to tie a tie, how to shoot a pistol, how to smile at a funeral.
"You were supposed to build something better," Vincent said quietly. "And all you did was rot."
Giovanni straightened his back like an old king on a ruined throne. "We're not made for better."
The flames crackled, shadows licking the edges of the room like wolves waiting to feast.
Vincent pulled the trigger.
Click.
Empty.
Not by accident.
Giovanni's eyes widened for the first time in decades—not in fear, but in disbelief. "You won't even finish it?"
Vincent lowered the gun. "You're already dead. You just don't know it yet."
Outside, sirens wailed, growing louder.
Isabella had sent the files to every federal office in the state, and by now the Moretti empire was folding like wet cardboard. The press was hungry. The prosecutors were hungrier. Giovanni Moretti wasn't going to die quick with a bullet—he was going to rot behind bars, stripped of everything except his name, which soon wouldn't be worth spit.
As the flames spread, Vincent turned and walked out the door, leaving Giovanni standing in his burning kingdom, the velvet curtains curling into blackened ashes behind him.