Vengeance Served

The rain had not stopped since the world had fractured. It drummed a relentless tattoo against the tall windows of Joseph Vincetti’s study, each drop a tiny hammer blow against the shattered remnants of his life. The only illumination came from the green glow of the desk lamp, casting long, distorted shadows that danced like specters in the opulent room. He stood before the window, his back to the room, a solitary figure consumed by a grief so profound it had begun to calcify into something harder, colder. On the polished mahogany desk behind him, a single white flower lay pristine, untouched by the storm raging outside, or the storm raging within. Methodically, deliberately, Vincetti stripped the petals from it, one by one, letting them drift to the floor like fallen snow.

“Find him,” he said, his voice a low rumble, devoid of inflection. “The one who smiled when they told him.”

Tony, his most trusted lieutenant, stood a respectful distance away, a shadow in the periphery of the lamplight. He had seen this stillness before, the unnerving calm that preceded the storm. “Boss, the Messanos are locked down tight. It’s a ghost town.”