Chapter 2

Five years in a vegetative state had left my muscles atrophied, my reactions dull.

The dagger sliced my arm. The crowd surged, and Miller yelled, trying to push them back.

But even the FBI could barely contain the furious mob.

"Devil! My son was only twenty-five! He was loyal, and you had him burned alive..."

"My son didn't have any psychological problems. He guarded you for two years, then suddenly he jumped off a building."

"You've dragged the Corleone family's honor through the mud! You belong in hell!"

Curses rained down on me.

Someone even tried to break the police line to spit in my face.

"Agent, please, make sure she gets the death penalty!"

Miller shielded me with his body, taking most of the blows.

He turned to me, his face grim, and whispered a warning, "Victoria, you need to shut your mouth. This is not going well for you."

I licked the blood from the corner of my mouth.

The pain was sharp, real. And exhilarating.

I pushed Miller aside. My arm still bleeding, I walked toward the enraged families.

"As long as I don't reveal how I did it, the FBI can never convict me, right?"

I smiled. "What a shame. I killed your precious sons and grandsons. Crushed their finger bones, one by one."

"But I can still walk around in couture, drink the most expensive champagne, and live my life just fine."

Someone threw a foul smelling shoe that hit me hard in the face.

The crowd erupted.

Miller fired a warning shot. The sharp crack of the gun silenced the uproar for a split second.

He stood on a raised platform, shouting at the countless cameras and angry faces.

"Causing a scene here won't help anything!"

"According to the autopsy reports and crime scene analysis, the deceased all died from classic gangland hits or what appear to be accidents!"

"There are no fingerprints from Miss Corleone, no eyewitnesses, and no surveillance footage of her ever leaving her hospital room!"

"Even with a confession, the law requires more than that to convict!"

His words were like a bucket of cold water, dousing the crowd's anger.

The victims' families gathered, murmuring among themselves, trying to figure out my methods.

"It's impossible. She was in a hospital bed for five years. How could she have planned all this?"

"Is someone helping her? A rival family?"

"Was she faking it? Could anyone fake a coma for five years?"

But Agent Miller shot that idea down.

"Victoria was under 24-hour surveillance."

"We've reviewed the tapes repeatedly. Victoria didn't open her eyes once in five years. There's no way she could have done this herself!"

I walked up to a weeping woman. "Want to know how he died?"

"Antonio. He cried before he died, begged for his life. Said he had a newborn daughter and pleaded for me to spare him."

"A soldier who swore an oath to the family, and in his last moments, he was thinking about diapers and formula, not honor."

"A coward like that doesn't just deserve to die. He deserves to die ugly."

"So I had his pleas recorded and played them on a loop for him until he took his last breath."

"Aaargh! I'll kill you! I'll kill you!" the woman screamed, a maniacal wail. If they hadn't held her back, she would have torn out my throat with her teeth.

Miller yanked my wrist and shoved me into an armored car. "You're a lunatic, Victoria."

I leaned against the window, watching the crowd pound on the glass. "But only lunatics are remembered, Agent."

And this, all of this, was my masterpiece.

The case exploded across the nation.

Soon, the "Coma Killer" case was trending everywhere.

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The buzz on Twitter was hotter than the presidential election.

Just as public opinion was unanimously condemning me as a psychopath, a breaking news alert cut across the broadcast.

It was a capo from the rival Gambino family, pointing at the camera and, with absolute certainty, dropping a bombshell.

"Don't let this woman fool you! I know the truth!"

"She's making deals! She's selling information to the devil!"