Chapter 7 - The Final Stand
On the surveillance monitors mounted to the safe room wall, the drama unfolding across the third floor was displayed in razor-sharp high definition.
I watched with my heart in my throat, holding Emma tightly against my chest, as Vincent walked deliberately back toward his study. His gait was steady, his head held high, carrying himself not like a man fleeing for his life, but like an ancient sovereign walking onto his battlefield.
The study double doors were kicked open.
Dominic Santoro stepped inside, flanked by Frank and three heavily armed Moretti enforcers. Dominic held a chrome pistol, his face twisted in manic, triumphant ecstasy.
"It's over, Uncle Vince!" Dominic shouted, his voice coming through the audio feed crisp and clear. "The ballroom is secured. Moretti’s men control every gate. You’re all out of options!"
Vincent stood calmly behind his desk, both hands resting flat upon the dark mahogany wood. He had placed his pistol beside Emma’s crayon drawing.
"Frank," Vincent said, ignoring his nephew completely, looking directly at his lifelong bodyguard. "Did they promise you the docks, or just a pile of dirty cash?"
Frank looked down at his shoes, unable to meet his employer’s gaze. "It wasn't personal, Vincent. The family needed a future. You’ve been living in the past for twenty-five years."
"And you think Dominic is the future?" Vincent asked, a cold, bitter chuckle escaping his chest. "Dominic couldn't run a fruit stand without stealing from his own register. Look at him, Frank. He’s trembling like a dog in the rain."
"Shut up!" Dominic roared, raising his pistol and pointing it straight at Vincent’s chest. "Shut up! You gave everything to a kitchen girl and her brat! You made a fool out of me in front of the entire family! Sign the asset transfer decrees on this desk, or I swear to God I’ll hunt down that child and throw her in the East River just like—"
Dominic stopped abruptly, realizing what he had just blurted out.
The room on the screen went entirely, terrifyingly still.
Vincent didn't blink. But the faint color that remained in his face drained away, leaving a visage so horrifyingly pale, so demonic in its absolute fury, that even the armed Moretti enforcers took an instinctive step backward.
"Just like what, Dominic?" Vincent whispered. The audio microphone picked up the rasping rattle in his throat.
Dominic swallowed hard, his bravado instantly curdling into raw panic. "Nothing. I didn't mean that."
"Twenty-four years ago," Vincent continued, his voice dropping into a register that made the hair on my arms stand straight up. "You were nineteen years old, Dominic. You were supposed to be driving the chase vehicle behind Clara’s car in Central Park. You told me you got a flat tire."
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Dominic's hands began to shake violently. "Uncle Vince, listen to me—"
"It wasn't Moretti who took my daughter," Vincent said, the realization settling into his soul with devastating, apocalyptic certainty. "It was you. You sold her route to Brooklyn to clear your gambling debts."
