Chapter 3: The Man at the Top of the Stairs
The door opened before Vincent could speak.
Marco Vitale filled the frame the way he always had — wide shoulders, careful eyes, the particular stillness of a man who had learned long ago that moving first was a mistake.
He had worked for Vincent's father before he worked for Vincent.
Eighteen years of loyalty.
Or what had looked like loyalty.
"Boss." Marco's gaze moved from Vincent to the nightstand.
To the device sitting on it.
"You called?"
Vincent hadn't called.
He had told Tessa to get Marco before the phone rang.
Before the voice told him not to.
"Close the door," Vincent said.
Marco did.
"Sit down."
"I'm fine standing."
"I didn't ask how you were."
A beat.
Marco pulled the chair from the corner and sat.
Vincent looked at him for a long moment.
Eighteen years.
He had watched this man carry his father's casket.
Had trusted him with routes, with names, with the location of every safe house the Corvino family owned.
"Where were you the night I was sh0t?"
Marco's expression didn't move.
"Same place I always was.
Downstairs.
Waiting for your call after the dinner."
"You were supposed to be outside."
"You told me to wait in the car."
"I told you to wait by the door."
"Vince—"
"Don't." Vincent's voice dropped.
"Don't use that name right now."
Tessa had not moved from the far side of the room.
She stood with her back near the window, hands at her sides, watching without pretending she wasn't.
Marco noticed her.
"You want to have this conversation in front of the nurse?"
"She stays."
Something crossed Marco's face.
Not quite surprise.
Something closer to calculation.
"There was a device under my mattress," Vincent said.
"A listening device.
It's been there long enough to hear six months of conversations.
Six months of meetings I held in this room because I couldn't get downstairs."
Marco looked at the nightstand.
"Someone got past security."
"Yes."
"That's not easy."
"No.
It isn't."
The word hung there.
Marco understood what Vincent was not saying.
Getting past security in the Corvino house was not easy for a stranger.
It was considerably easier for the man who ran the security.
"You think I put it there." Marco's voice was flat.
"I think someone did."
"It wasn't me."
"Then you won't mind telling me who had access to this room in the first three weeks after I came home from the hospital."
Marco was quiet for four seconds.
Vincent counted them.
"Staff.
Doctors.
The physical therapist.
Lauren."
"And you."
"And me.
Yes.
I checked the room personally every morning for the first month.
You know that."
"I do know that."
Another silence.
Tessa shifted her weight slightly.
Vincent caught it in his peripheral vision.
She had noticed something.
He filed it away.
"There was also an envelope," Vincent said.
"Hidden in the same place.
Containing a photograph from the night I was sh0t and a payment receipt.
Fifty thousand dollars.
Lauren's signature."
Marco's jaw tightened.
"Lauren paid someone?"
"According to the receipt, yes.
Three days before the sh00ting."
"To hire—"
"To warn me.
That's what the note says." Vincent watched him carefully.
"Someone went to a lot of trouble to make sure I found both things together.
The device that suggests I'm being betrayed.
And the receipt that points directly at my fiancée."
Marco said nothing.
"The interesting question," Vincent continued, "is who benefits most from me suspecting Lauren."
The chair scraped.
Marco stood up.
"I don't like what you're implying."
"Sit down."
"Vince—"
"Sit.
Down."
Marco sat.
His hands were on his knees.
Still.
Too still.
"I got a phone call," Vincent said.
"Right before you came upstairs.
Unknown number.
Three words.
Don't trust Marco."
The room went very quiet.
Marco's eyes moved to the device on the nightstand.
Then to Tessa.
Then back to Vincent.
"Someone's trying to turn you against me," he said.
"Same as they're trying to turn you against Lauren.
You see that, right?
Someone is working you."
"Maybe."
"Not maybe.
Think about it.
Device, receipt, phone call — all pointing in different directions.
Classic misdirection."
"You're right," Vincent said.
"It is classic misdirection." He picked up the envelope from the bed beside him.
"Which is why I haven't shown you what's actually written on the back of this photograph yet."
Marco went still.
"I described the receipt.
I described the note about Lauren.
But I didn't tell you what the final sentence says." Vincent looked at him.
"How did you know there was a note?"
The color left Marco Vitale's face.
Not all at once.
Slowly.
Like water draining from a glass.
"I assumed—"
"You said someone is working me.
You described the device, the receipt, the phone call.
Three things.
But I only told you about two of them before you started talking." Vincent set the envelope down.
"I never mentioned the phone call to you, Marco.
You walked in after it happened.
I didn't tell you about it.
I told you about the device and the receipt.
That's all."
Tessa's hand found the edge of the windowsill behind her.
Marco's mouth opened.
Closed.
"So I'm going to ask you one more time," Vincent said quietly.
"And I want you to think very carefully before you answer.
Because eighteen years means I will listen to whatever you say.
But I will also know if you're lying."
May you like
He leaned forward in the wheelchair.
"Who sh0t me, Marco?"
