The Vegetative Killer

The Gambino capo pointed at me, his fingers short and thick, adorned with three gold rings.

"I figured it out. The victims all have one thing in common."

"Their brothers, sons, or close friends all went missing five years ago!"

A jolt shot through me.

Miller caught my reaction. He opened the car door, gesturing for the capo to continue.

"My guess is, on the surface, Victoria is an art prodigy. Secretly, she's an information broker."

"Those men only got close to her because they were desperate to find their missing loved ones."

"And what happened? She took their money, gave them nothing, and sent them to hell!"

The theory was simple, convincing, and it worked.

The crowd erupted again, their anger burning hotter than before.

"Devil! Using our love for our families to make a profit!"

"Kill her! Nail her to a cross!"

Miller stood in front of me, his hand on his holster, shouting to maintain order.

I leaned against the armored car door. Instead of defending myself, I just raised an eyebrow.

"Since you're all so clever, let's just say that's what happened."

"Go ahead. Pin whatever crime you want on me and get the execution over with."

"I think 'information broker' has a nice ring to it. It's creative."

Miller was trembling with rage, on the verge of losing control of the rioting crowd.

Just then, a young man in a worn jacket pushed through the crowd.

"No! You're all wrong!"

He stood before me, his body trembling, but his voice was surprisingly firm.

"Miss Corleone is an angel!"

"Five years ago, I was homeless. No one would even look at me. It was she who bought all my paintings and sponsored me to study in Paris!"

"She's supported countless struggling artists! She has a heart of gold. She would never make a deal like that!"

His words were like a smoke bomb, stunning the furious crowd into silence.

A few of the men who had been yelling the loudest now looked hesitant.

Miller looked from the young man to me, a flicker of confusion in his eyes.

"Miss Corleone, do you remember me?"

"Are you being threatened? Are you taking the fall for someone else?"

The question gave everyone pause.

They had been blinded by hatred and hadn't considered the possibility.

Several of the people who had been attacking me now looked ashamed.

"I must have lost my mind. How can a person in a coma kill anyone?"

"I'm sorry, Miss Corleone. We just got emotional..."

Miller seemed to be wavering. His tone softened as he tried to persuade me.

"Victoria, if someone is threatening you, just tell us. We can protect you."

Meeting their earnest gazes, I trembled. I lowered my head, hiding a pathetic flicker of discomposure.

I quickly composed myself.

"Leo, my little painter."

"Did you really think I bought your art out of the goodness of my heart?"

The young man's expression froze.

I pushed Miller away and stepped closer to the young man. "I sponsored you because I saw the desperation in your paintings."

"That kind of pain, that struggle of nearly starving to death in a gutter... it was captivating."

"Pain is the most expensive pigment in the world of art. I'm a businesswoman. It was a smart investment, buying in when the price was low."

"It was just an investment, so I could sell for a better price later. Understand? You idiot."

The light in the young man's eyes died. The crowd erupted again.

"I knew it! That woman has no heart!"

"Even her charity is just a way to make money!"

In the chaos, an old woman in black mourning clothes pushed her way shakily through the crowd.

She dropped to her knees with a thud, her thin, withered hand clutching at the hem of my dress.

"Principessa... I'm begging you."

"I don't care if you're a murderer or an information broker."

"My grandson, Marco, the one with the blue eyes. If you just tell me where he is, you can take my life."

The old woman's sobs were heart-wrenching, bringing tears to the eyes of many in the crowd.

Miller grabbed my shoulder, hissing a warning.

"This old woman has a heart condition. Be careful what you say..."

I nodded as if in understanding, then let a smile curve my lips.

"Ah, Marco."

"I remember him. The boy with the beautiful blue eyes."

A glimmer of hope ignited in the old woman's eyes.

I bent down, leaning close to her ear. "He was very loud when he died."

"I enjoyed the sound."

"When the sledgehammer shattered his kneecaps, that crisp, cracking sound... it was a beautiful symphony."

"As for where he is?"

I pointed in the direction of Las Vegas.

"You know the new 'Caesars Palace' casino?"

"He's under it."

"He's mixed into the foundation. Part of the cement. Now thousands of people dance over his grave every day."

The old woman's eyes rolled back. She clutched her chest and collapsed without a sound.

"You monster," Miller finally exploded, slamming me against the car door, his eyes blazing.

The scene descended into chaos. This time, no one could stop the crowd surging forward to tear me to pieces.

Just as the situation spun completely out of control, and I braced myself for the impact,

an ambulance screamed through the crowd.

A doctor jumped out, his scrubs bloodstained, waving a medical chart and yelling at the top of his lungs.

"Stop! Everybody stop!"

"The tenth soldier! The one whose throat was cut!"

"We saved him!"

"He's awake! And he's talking! He knows who did it!"