Chapter 180: Portrait of a lady

Chapter 180: Portrait of a lady
The roar of Kieran’s engine faded into the distance, leaving a heavy, suffocating silence in Rocco’s gaudy living room. Rocco was still hiding in the kitchen, smart enough to stay out of the line of fire.

Solomon stood by the door, his hand on the knob, but he didn't turn it. Instead, he stared at the empty space where Kieran had just been standing, his mind replaying the last five minutes on a loop.

Gabo called an hour ago. Gabo is at the shipyard. Gabo wants the bonds.

Solomon turned slowly. Ernest was back at the wet bar, pouring himself another drink, his demeanor entirely too relaxed for a man whose son had just rushed off to save his family from a psychopath.

"I’ll go with you," Ernest said, not looking up. "I can help you at the harbor."

"Gabo didn't call you," Solomon said, his voice low and devoid of inflection.

Ernest paused, the bottle hovering over the glass. "Excuse me?"

"If Gabo called you an hour ago asking for the bonds, he wouldn't be at the shipyard already," Solomon said, stepping back into the room. "The shipyard is Marco's secret vault. If Gabo didn't know the bonds were invalid, he wouldn't know about the shipyard either. He wouldn't be waiting there unless he had been there for days."

Solomon stopped a few feet from his father.

"You set him up," Solomon said coldly.

Ernest sighed, a sound of disappointment rather than guilt. He set the bottle down and turned, leaning against the counter. The mask of the helpful father dropped completely, replaced by the calculating predator Solomon remembered from his childhood.

"Kieran is a wild dog," Ernest said smoothly. "He’s powerful, yes. But he’s unstable. He draws too much heat. The police, the Feds, the internal wars... It’s bad for business at this point."

"So you’re selling him out," Solomon stated.

"I’m correcting the market," Ernest corrected. "Gabo is desperate. He’s already entrenched at the shipyard with a dozen men. Kieran is walking into a kill box. He’ll die a hero, trying to save his family and everything, very noble. Gabo will take the fall for the murder, the Feds will swoop in, and the vacuum left behind... Well, that’s where we come in."

Solomon stared at him. "We?"

"Those loyal to Kieran won't follow Gabo, especially if he’s in jail," Ernest explained, his eyes gleaming with the prospect of power. "But they need a leader. Someone close to Marco Valente connection. Someone close to Kieran Karakatsanis. Someone who, conventionally, shares his blood."

Ernest walked over to Solomon, stopping just inches away. He reached out, placing a hand on Solomon's shoulder. Solomon didn't flinch, though his skin crawled.

"You can have the power, Solomon. You can have the city. You can have everything you ever wanted." Ernest’s voice dropped to a whisper. "Even that lovely woman you brought to my house years ago."

Solomon went rigid.

"I’m not blind," Ernest smirked. "I saw the way you looked at her back then. That wasn't your baby mama, was it? That was Catherine Santoro. Kieran’s beloved wife."

Solomon said nothing, his jaw clenched tight enough to snap.

"You were protecting her," Ernest continued, pressing his advantage. "Protecting her child. Imagine how grateful she would be if you were the one to pick up the pieces after her husband dies today. She’s going to be lonely, Solomon. She’s going to need a protector. And let’s be honest… You do look a lot like him. It won't be hard for her to transfer those affections."

Solomon looked down at the floor. He let a flicker of hesitation cross his face, a calculated crack in his armor. "And you think... You think I could do it? Take his place?"

"I know you can," Ernest said, his voice soothing, persuasive. "Kieran might have my blood, but he’s a stranger. You, Solomon... You are my son. My only son. We got this."

Solomon remained silent for a long moment, letting the offer hang in the air. The power. The money. Catherine. It was everything a man would kill for.

"Okay," Solomon whispered.

Ernest exhaled, his shoulders relaxing. He smiled, a genuine expression of victory. "Good boy. Now, we need to—"

"The portrait," Solomon interrupted, his voice slightly louder, though still calm.

Ernest blinked, thrown off by the non-sequitur. "What?"

"The portrait of my mother," Solomon said, looking up, his eyes unreadable. "The oil painting. The one made by that friend of hers. That famous artist. Nina... Nina Pallan."

"Pallzan," Ernest corrected automatically. "Nina Pallzan."

"Yes. That one," Solomon nodded. "Where is it?"

Ernest waved a dismissive hand, annoyed by the distraction. "I sold it. Many years ago."

"To who?"

"To who?" Ernest scoffed. "I don't know, Solomon. I don't remember. It was a private sale. Some collector in South America, I think. The painting isn't even listed as part of Pallzan’s official catalog. It was a long time ago, I have no idea who bought it."

"I see…"

"Why the sudden interest in a piece of canvas?" Ernest said impatiently.

"Did you write it down? The buyer?" Solomon asked, his voice tightening. "Could you track it?"

"Of course I wrote it down," Ernest said, tapping his temple. "It’s all in my ledgers at the estate in Genoa. I could find the buyer if it’s that important to you…"

"Can I really take Kieran's place?" Solomon asked again, the question hanging differently this time.

"Of course," Ernest beamed. "I can make it work. We can make it work."

"Okay," Solomon said.

He drew his gun in one fluid motion.

Ernest’s eyes widened, his mouth opening to speak, but the sound never came.

The shot was deafening in the enclosed space. The bullet struck Ernest Vance dead center in the forehead. His head snapped back, and he crumpled to the floor like a puppet with its strings cut.

Rocco walked back into the living room, a bottle of expensive scotch in hand. He stopped dead in the doorway.

Ernest Vance was lying on his back in the center of the rug, a dark hole in his forehead, staring blindly at the ceiling.

Rocco didn't scream. He didn't drop the bottle. He just stood there, the color draining rapidly from his face until he looked like a wax figure. He looked at the body, then at Solomon, who was calmly holstering his weapon.

"You killed him," Rocco whispered, his voice barely audible.

"Yeah," Solomon said, stepping over Ernest’s legs. He stopped in front of Rocco, his expression completely blank. "Clean this up."

Rocco swallowed hard, his eyes wide with terror. "Solomon, he's... This is my house."

"Roll him in the rug," Solomon instructed, checking his watch. "If anyone asks he left ten minutes ago to catch a flight."

Rocco looked at the blood soaking into the wool, then nodded frantically, knowing better than to argue with a man who had just executed his own father without blinking. "Okay. Okay, I'll handle it."

"Give me your keys," Solomon said, holding out a hand.

Rocco fumbled in his pocket and dropped a set of keys into Solomon’s palm. " The SUV in the driveway. It has a full tank."

"Good."

Solomon walked out the front door without looking back, leaving Rocco alone with the corpse and the silence. He climbed into the SUV, started the engine, and peeled out of the driveway.