Chapter 8 - The Price Of Blood
At 3:00 AM, the black federal SUVs arrived at the mansion gates. Agent Vance stepped out into the icy drizzle, his heavy trench coat collar turned up against the wind, his badge gleaming under the security floodlights. I met him in the front courtyard, walking him down to the sub-basement vault where Marco was still strapped to the steel chair.
Marco looked like a broken shell. His designer clothes were rumpled, his hair hung in greasy strands over his bruised face, and his eyes were hollow with the sudden realization of his new reality. There would be no fifty-fifty partnership. There would be no private jets to Zurich, no penthouse suites overlooking Lake Michigan, and no glory. There was only a lifetime of concrete walls, steel bars, and fluorescent lights.
"Marco Bellini," Agent Vance said, pulling a set of heavy steel handcuffs from his tactical belt. "You are under arrest for conspiracy to commit murder, federal wire fraud, interstate racketeering, and corporate espionage. You have the right to remain silent."
As the federal agents hoisted Marco to his feet, he locked eyes with me. There was no anger left in his gaze, only a pathetic, desperate pleading.
"Dante... please," Marco whispered, his voice cracking like dry leaves. "Don't do this. Remember the alley. Remember South Chicago. I saved your life, Dante! You owe me that!"
I looked at him, feeling no rage, no vindication—only an immense, solemn pity.
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"I paid that debt a thousand times over, Marco," I said softly. "I gave you my loyalty, my fortune, and my love. But you decided that wasn't enough. You wanted my blood, and you were willing to spill the blood of an innocent child to get it. That debt is settled."
The agents led him out into the rain. As the heavy steel doors of the vault clicked shut behind them, I stood alone in the cold subterranean silence, closing the book on twenty-five years of my life.
