Chapter 2 - The Taste of Truth|
Vincent lowered his arm, his fingers remaining perfectly steady around the crust. The room seemed to expand, the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner suddenly sounding as heavy as sledgehammers against wood.
"Who, Emma?" Vincent asked softly. His voice did not tremble. In his line of work, panic was an invitation to burial.
The child shifted her weight, her socks sliding a fraction of an inch on the polished floor. She pointed a tiny, trembling index finger toward the arched entrance of the hallway.
"The lady with the yellow dress," Emma whispered. "She opened a little bottle. She spilled white flour on the butter and wiped it with her cloth."
Julianna.
Julianna Vance. Daughter of the state’s most influential appellate judge, a woman who wore silk that smelled of jasmine and possessed a laugh that could disarm a room of seasoned killers. They were set to be married in three months—a union meant to bridge the gap between Federal Hill's underworld and the state's highest legal corridors.
Footsteps echoed off the marble down the hall. High heels, rhythmic and deliberate.
Julianna appeared in the doorway, framed by the dark oak molding. She wore a tailored yellow wool dress, her blonde hair pinned back with gold clips. She smiled, bright and effortless, holding a crystal glass of chilled water.
"Vincent, darling," she said, her voice light as a song. "You're taking late breakfasts again. You promised you would look over the seating arrangements for the gala."
Vincent did not stand. He did not smile. He picked up the silver butter knife, carefully sliced off the portion of bread he had just buttered, and slid the small porcelain dish across the polished mahogany table until it rested directly in front of the empty chair opposite him.
"Sit down, Julianna," Vincent said quietly.
Julianna paused, her eyes flickering from the bread to the small child standing beside his knee. A subtle shadow passed across her features before her smooth mask snapped back into place.
"Vincent? Is something wrong? Why is Maria's child in the dining room?"
"Eat the bread, Julianna," Vincent said, his voice flat, devoid of any warmth.
Julianna laughed, a tight, nervous sound that died quickly in the vast space of the room. "What on earth are you talking about? I've already had breakfast—"
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"Eat it," Vincent repeated. Two words. Simple. Unyielding.
Julianna’s hands tightened around her crystal glass. The color drained from her face so fast that even the sunlight through the windows seemed to wash out her skin. She took a step back, her lower lip quivering slightly before her mouth could build a lie.
