Chapter 5 - The Glass Crown
Constantine did not immediately lower the weapon. His eyes narrowed as he assessed her presence in the basement.
“You shouldn't be down here, Josie,” he said, his voice dropping an octave as he slowly engaged the safety and holstered the gun.
“I couldn't sleep,” Josie said, stepping fully into the room. Her eyes flicked to the monitor screens displaying the estate grounds, then to the bloodstain on the floor where Tate had been kneeling. “And I found something in Mila’s room.”
Constantine’s expression sharpened. “What?”
Josie walked over to the desk and laid the framed photograph she had taken from Mila’s nightstand onto the wood blotter. She pointed to the silver-haired man holding the cigar.
“You told me Julian Cross smokes wintergreen cigars,” Josie said calmly. “But who is this?”
Constantine looked down at the photo. A dark shadow passed over his features. “That is my uncle, Nikolai. He retired to Florida four years ago after suffering a stroke.”
“Did he?” Josie asked, leaning against the edge of the heavy desk. “Because I worked the late shift at the Harborview Diner three weeks ago. A man with silver hair and a silver lapel pin came in at 3:00 AM. He ordered black coffee and smoked a wintergreen cigar on the patio. When he paid his bill, he left a hundred-dollar tip signed with the initials N.V.”
Constantine stared at her, his jaw clenching so hard a muscle twitched in his cheek. “Nikolai is in a wheelchair in Miami.”
“Or he wants you to think he is,” Josie countered. “Tate said 'The Architect' knew about your dock deals. Who built those docks thirty years ago, Constantine? Who owned the Voss Syndicate before you took over?”
Constantine stood frozen.
The silence stretched between them, thick and heavy with realization.
Thirty years ago, Nikolai Voss had ruled the Boston underworld with an iron fist. When Constantine took over the family business ten years prior, he had shifted the syndicate away from human trafficking and narcotics, focusing instead on legitimate real estate, shipping, and medical foundations.
Nikolai had publicly supported the transition, retiring to his estate in Florida.
“He hated Elena,” Constantine whispered, the words coming out as a horrified realization. “Elena was a prosecutor’s daughter. She convinced me to clean up the business. Nikolai called her 'the cancer in the bloodline'.”
Suddenly, the red emergency phone on Constantine’s desk began to ring.
The loud, shrill sound pierced the quiet of the room.
Constantine picked up the receiver. “Speak.”
Viktor’s frantic voice echoed through the speaker loudly enough for Josie to hear every word.
“Don Voss! It’s a trap! The safehouse in New Hampshire just blew up! A car bomb went off as we pulled into the driveway! Tate is dead, and two of our men are critically injured!”
Constantine gripped the receiver so hard the plastic groaned. “Where are you, Viktor?”
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“We’re ambushed on Route 93!” Viktor yelled over the sound of automatic gunfire crackling through the phone line. “They have heavy weapons! Don't stay at the house! They’re coming for—”
The line went dead with a burst of static.
