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!"

Chaos erupted.

Everyone scrambled toward the soldier's hospital room.

Miller dragged me by my handcuffs, pushing me to the front of the crowd.

Through the glass, I saw Enzo tangled in a mess of tubes. Disgust flashed across my face.

Then I gave Miller a faint smile.

"If I had known you were so hard to kill, I would have used white phosphorus instead of cyanide."

"I planned nine perfect executions, only for you to become the one stain on my record."

"A cyanide capsule is supposed to be fatal. How did you..."

The attending physician shot me a cold look and removed his mask.

"Sorry to disappoint you, Miss Corleone."

"We threw every top medical resource we had at him. We've neutralized most of the toxins, and he's no longer in critical condition."

The victims' families were ecstatic.

The moment Enzo identified me, I was finished.

They pressed against the glass, shouting to Enzo inside.

"Enzo! Tell them it was her! Tell them what she did!"

"For your family, for your dead brothers, you have to point her out!"

Enzo slowly opened his eyes.

The moment his gaze met mine, he began to tremble, too terrified to speak.

The crowd kept urging him on.

"Don't be afraid. The agents are here. They'll protect you."

"It was Victoria, wasn't it?"

"Just nod your head. It will all be over."

They pleaded, but after more than an hour, Enzo still hadn't said a word.

No matter what Miller asked, no matter how the families begged, he just stared at me, petrified.

As the minutes ticked by, the crowd grew restless.

"He's traumatized. It's PTSD."

"A normal interrogation won't work. We need a psychologist!"

"Use hypnosis! Get the truth from his subconscious!"

Miller hesitated, but under immense public pressure, he had no choice but to nod.

After getting approval from his superiors and the family, the FBI brought in New York's top criminal psychologist.

The room was cleared, leaving only me and Miller behind the one-way glass.

Dr. Hoffman's voice was deep and magnetic, like an ancient incantation.

Enzo's breathing evened out, his eyes unfocused.

He answered the first few basic questions smoothly, his expression growing peaceful.

Until Dr. Hoffman softly asked the crucial question.

"Enzo, take a deep breath. Tell me, who tried to kill you that night?"

"Was it... someone working for Victoria Corleone?"

Enzo, who had been calm, suddenly shot his eyes open and began to struggle violently.

I stood behind the one-way glass, smiled at him, and silently mouthed a single word.

"Shh."

The next second, Enzo made a strange gurgling noise. His hands shot up and clamped around his own neck.

The force was shocking, not what you'd expect from a man just pulled back from the brink of death.

"Stop him!" Miller roared, bursting into the room.

Several agents and doctors swarmed him, trying to pry his hands from his neck.

But Enzo was like a man possessed, his face quickly turning a deep purple.

Then, Enzo's head went limp.

The heart monitor flatlined.

Miller let go, his face pale and beaded with sweat.

The doctor shook his head. "Cause of death was asphyxiation, brought on by extreme terror. It was a suicide. He did it with his own two hands."

At the end, he'd nearly snapped his own neck.

I stood outside the door and clapped softly, my handcuffs clinking.

"Brilliant."

"He'd rather choke himself to death than identify me. It seems my charm is greater than death itself, Agent Miller."

Miller finally snapped.

"Victoria, what the hell did you do?"

I blinked innocently.

I had no physical contact with the soldier. And in front of everyone, cuffed and shackled, I had no opportunity to do a thing.

I leaned close to Miller's enraged face and blew a taunting breath.

"Your only witness would rather die in agony than testify against me."

"So, Agent. What are you going to do with me now?"

With the soldier's bizarre death in front of a room full of witnesses, the case reached an unprecedented climax.

I was trembling with excitement.

My masterpiece was almost complete.