During the five years I was in a vegetative state, all ten family soldiers assigned to guard me were murdered.

One of them merely smoked a cigarette outside my hospital room. The next day, he was found upside down, drowned in a toilet.

Another simply adjusted my pillow. The next day, he took a dive from a skyscraper rooftop.

The Corleone family was in chaos, but they couldn't find a single trace of the killer.

With no other choice, the ten executions, all textbook Mafia hits, became cold cases.

Strangely, the very second the tenth guard's heart stopped,

I opened my eyes.

The first thing I did upon waking was call the FBI and turn myself in.

The agents were stunned.

"Miss Corleone, are you saying that while in a coma for five years, you planned and executed the murders of ten fully armed Mafia soldiers?"

My fingers tapped lightly on the table, a faint smile playing on my lips.

"That's right."

"Being in a vegetative state only means I couldn't move."

"Who ever told you that killing, something so crude, required me to get my hands dirty?"

I was in a coma for five years. In that time, the ten soldiers assigned to guard me died.

The first thing I did when I woke up was turn myself in, yet the FBI couldn't charge me with a thing. No one believed a person in a coma could kill.

Finally, I watched the tenth soldier die in front of everyone. The crowd was furious, and I was thrilled. My plan had worked.

A strange silence fell over the FBI headquarters.

"Victoria was a renowned young artist before her accident. They said God kissed her hands. The girl wouldn't even hurt a fly."

"What's more interesting is that she was lying in a hospital bed for five solid years. What did she do, send out hit orders with her brainwaves?"

Even though I had confessed, no one believed me.

Some even snickered, convinced I was mentally unstable and ready to have me committed.

I adjusted my posture, leaning back elegantly in the chair and speaking nonchalantly.

"The first victim, Luigi, was strangled with high-voltage wire, his tongue torn out. The family's signature punishment for a 'big mouth.'"

"The second, Mario, was filled with seven gallons of cement and thrown into the Hudson. A standard 'swimming lesson.'"

...

I recounted the confidential details of all ten deaths flawlessly, my voice unhurried and composed.

I even knew details the FBI's own autopsy reports had missed.

A young agent's coffee cup shattered on the floor. His voice trembled.

"This is all classified. It's from the FBI files. There's no way you could know this!"

I shrugged, my expression a mask of innocence.

"Because I ordered the hits."

"They're my masterpieces. Of course I remember every brushstroke."

The words had barely left my mouth when the room erupted.

In an instant, several cold muzzles were pointed at my forehead.

My hands were cuffed roughly behind my back. The tall, older agent, Miller, did the honors himself.

In the interrogation room, Miller loosened his tie.

He was a decorated twenty year veteran.

As the FBI's ace against organized crime, he had never encountered a criminal this brazen.

"Don't play games with me, Victoria."

"Five years. You couldn't even breathe on your own. So tell me, how did you orchestrate ten murders from a hospital room so secure a fly couldn't get in?"

I gave a contemptuous laugh, leaning back against the hard chair.

"Are FBI tax dollars paying for idiots like you? You have to ask me such a simple question?"

"You want to know how I passed the messages? Figure it out yourself."

"If you can't find a single clue, Agent Miller, maybe you should take off that uniform and work security at my nightclub. I'll pay you double."

Miller slammed his fist on the table. "Wipe that smug look off your face, Victoria!"

"Those men were loyal to you. Tell me! What was your motive for ordering their executions?"

My smile vanished.

"The truth is, even in my coma, my mind was sharp." I lifted my chin slightly. "They were trash. They deserved to die."

Miller stared, trying to find a flicker of remorse on my face. He failed.

"Did they... harm you while you were in the coma?" Miller's voice grew low.

I nodded emphatically. "Yes."

"I require absolute silence. One of them dared to wear hard-soled leather shoes on his shift. Was he trying to wake me?"

"As a soldier of the Corleone family, he lacked basic common sense. They found him with his own shoes nailed to his skull."

"He liked making noise, didn't he? So I made him shut up for good."

"And another thing. I prefer classical music. That one dared to play rock and roll. Did he think he could assault my artistic sensibilities!"

"He didn't respect his master's preferences, so I had him strangled with speaker wire. Let him get a real feel for rhythm!"

"Just for... that?" Miller's eyes widened in disbelief.

"Isn't that enough?" My voice rose, my clenched fist slamming down on the table. "They were disrespectful. Of course they deserved to die!"

Miller froze, speechless for a long moment.

The interrogation lasted three hours.

After that, I refused to answer any more of Miller's questions.

With no physical evidence, my lawyers would have me out on bail in no time.

But I knew the real show was just beginning.

The moment I stepped out of the interrogation room, camera flashes erupted like gunfire.

I was swarmed by a mob of the victims' angry families.

Their eyes were bloodshot. They looked like they wanted to tear me apart.

"Bitch! We'll kill you!"

Just as Miller moved to step in front of me, a white-haired old man lunged from the crowd, brandishing a dagger aimed straight for my heart.

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.

[Former Art Prodigy Kills Ten: A Twisted Mind or a Deeper Conspiracy?]

[Can a Person in a Coma Kill? Experts Weigh In on the Methods]

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!"

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!"