Death Sentence on Tape

Light leaked through the hospital room door crack like a dirty yellow thread.

Elizabeth's voice was sickeningly sweet: "Don't... this is a hospital."

Vincent pressed against her with a laugh: "Hospital's not a church. Besides, who'd dare push the door? Marco's all about maintaining dignity."

She giggled softly at his coaxing: "He wouldn't dare. Breaking that signet ring last night was just for show."

I stood outside the door, motionless.

My lieutenant glanced at me, fingertips settling on his gun handle.

I raised my hand, pressing it down lightly.

I didn't need to charge in for some petty satisfaction.

I needed them to tear off their own fig leaf, leave behind something that would nail their own coffins shut.

Sounds of rustling sheets came from inside, followed by a woman's moaning.

Elizabeth still playing coy: "What if a nurse comes in—"

Vincent's low voice: "Then let her watch. Who's going to stop the Montague princess from getting what she wants?"

That word "princess" hit her like sugar straight to the brain.

Her voice got breathier: "You're such a sweet talker."

Vincent struck while the iron was hot: "I'm telling the truth. Marco doesn't deserve to touch you. He only deserves to wait for you, be your dog."

Elizabeth, flattered into heat, spoke earnestly like she was justifying herself: "I didn't mean to embarrass him. I just... wanted him to be more obedient."

"Obedience requires proof." Vincent's tone was gentle as medicine being administered. "Tomorrow's shipment needs customs clearance, needs Leventino's guarantee. You ask, he gives. You cry a little, he goes soft."

Elizabeth immediately caught fire with childish competitiveness: "He should give it to me anyway. Look how he hit you last night—he owes compensation."

Wet kissing sounds came from inside, followed by Vincent's muffled panting laugh: "Then compensate me first."

Elizabeth giggled: "You're so bad... don't, don't do that."

I pulled a micro-recorder from my briefcase, metal casing cold against my palm. I slipped the pickup along the door crack, pressing it against the floor inside—perfect position to catch everything: breathing, fabric, every word of seduction.

Click.

The tape began rolling.

I didn't leave.

I waited for them to speak more clearly, reach deeper.

The sounds inside grew increasingly unrestrained.

Light snaps of buttons being torn open, belt buckles hitting bed rails, then the rhythm of a creaking bed frame, a woman's suppressed moans being forced out one by one.

My lieutenant's face darkened, fists clenched until knuckles popped.

I only watched my watch.

Enough. Give them a little more time, let them spell out "tomorrow" themselves.

Sure enough, Vincent worked the rope back around her neck between gasps: "Once we get the guarantee, we're set. Your father will praise you. Then if you want Marco to wait three years, he waits three years; want him to wait forever, he waits forever."

Elizabeth's breathing was ragged, but she was still foolishly earnest: "Mm... if I say wait, he waits. He's most afraid of me crying."

Vincent chuckled low: "The way you are now, he'd be more afraid. You know what? He has no idea whose arms you're in right now."

Elizabeth felt feverish at that stimulation, like showing off out of spite, voice floating softly: "Then don't let him know. Anyway... he'll come."

Vincent whispered in her ear: "When he comes, make him sign. Make him kneel and hand over the guarantee."

Elizabeth laughed once, like she was drunk: "Good."

I pressed stop.

Click.

The tape stopped rolling. The corridor returned to dead silence.

——

Uncle Tony's room reeked of medicine.

The old man half-reclined against his headboard, eyes still hard.

He saw the black gold signet on my hand, his breathing stopped for a beat: "Franco gave it to you?"

I raised my hand, letting the ring face catch the light: "From tonight, I give the orders."

I placed the metal box on his bedside table, pushing it before his eyes.

Uncle Tony saw the wax seal with the ring impression, his gaze instantly turning cold: "Where'd you get this?"

"The door crack of the next room over." I said. "They were discussing guarantees in a church hospital, very invested in the conversation."

Uncle Tony's adam's apple rolled, suppressing fire: "What's inside?"

"Their voices." I said. "How she convinced herself she was 'just teaching me to be obedient,' how he gradually fed 'customs guarantee' into her mouth. And—her personally saying 'don't let Marco know, he'll come anyway.'"

Uncle Tony was silent for two seconds, like pressing rage into his bones: "Enough."

"Before sunrise tomorrow," I said, "make three copies: one for union hall, one for the transport company, one for the family advisory board. Title it 'Montague Princess Breaks Oath and Crosses Lines, Solicits Guarantee'—not one word more needed."

Uncle Tony nodded: "No one will dare speak another word for them."

He suddenly added another line, like handing over a second blade: "Mrs. Rossi has entered the game. Montague's political umbrella protection got intercepted. Their legal team switched masters this morning."

My eyes flickered slightly.

Camilla's methods were always clean: while you're still explaining, she's already bought your mouth.

I fastened my gloves: "Then even faster."

——

Next morning.

No gunshots.

But North Shore City seemed like someone had shut off the main power.

The dock union hall posted new schedules with Montague ship names crossed out; transport companies collectively broke contracts; border checkpoints suddenly got serious, arms ships detained for "guarantee withdrawal."

Outer gang sharks smelled blood and turned to bite. Casinos got raided, ledgers confiscated, Montague cash flow choked off like a strangled throat.

The afternoon newspaper ran the headline: "Montague Credit Collapse: Guarantee Chain Breaks Triggering Serial Raids."

Both sides of the law understood—this was ladder-pulling, not quarreling.

——

In that special care hospital room.

Elizabeth woke late, hair scattered on her pillow, face still wearing a victor's lazy satisfaction.

"He should be coming," she told Vincent. "He'll bow his head. Then deliver the customs guarantee."

Two knocks on the door.

Without waiting for response, it pushed open.

The person entering wasn't me.

It was a woman in a black coat, gloves cut with extreme precision, like they were designed specifically for handling ledgers.

Two bodyguards behind her stood ramrod straight, gazes without warmth.

Elizabeth frowned: "Who are you? This is a Montague room."

The woman slammed a document onto the bed, papers making a crisp slap like a backhand.

"Rossi family private representative." She said. "By order of Mrs. Camilla, delivering settlement papers."

Elizabeth froze: "Camilla... who?"

The representative didn't explain, just pulled out an attachment like displaying an execution order.

It contained overseas account freeze notices, legal team replacement statements, and a thank-you note brief enough to be insulting—signed with Camilla's name, handwriting sharp as knife points:

"My husband never owes anyone waiting time."

Elizabeth's face drained from rosy to deathly pale in an instant.

Her gaze locked onto those four words "my husband" like someone had publicly flayed her skin.

"You... whose husband?" Her voice shook but she still tried to maintain composure. "Marco? Impossible. We have an oath—"

The representative raised her hand, fingertip pointing to the document's final page.

That page had no excess words, only a clear signet ring impression beside a church registry number and two signatures.

Marco Leventino. Camilla Rossi.

Elizabeth's pupils shrank to pinpoints.

She finally heard the sound of her world collapsing, a fragmented gasp squeezing from her throat: "...He got married?"

The representative leaned down, voice lighter but more vicious: "He married two years ago."