Chapter 6 - Bloodlines And Betrayal
Within four minutes, the estate’s tactical team had neutralized the threat.
The sniper had been stationed on the terrace of an abandoned penthouse three hundred yards away, armed with a silenced long-range rifle. But the shooter hadn't escaped; Marco dragged a battered, bleeding man into the subterranean wine cellar where Vincent awaited.
I stood at the top of the stairs, refusing Mrs. Gable’s pleas to remain in the safe room. I was tired of being a helpless victim waiting for others to decide my fate. If this war was being fought over my mother's legacy, I wanted to see the faces of my executioners.
Vincent stood under the harsh fluorescent bulb of the basement, his sleeves rolled up, revealing intricate ink swirling down his forearms.
""Talk,"" Vincent said without raising his voice.
The captured shooter spat blood onto the concrete. ""Julian paid fifty grand upfront. The rest upon confirmation that the girl was dead before bank opening tomorrow.""
My breath caught in my throat. Julian Bennett. My mother's tormentor had ordered a contract killing on me on Christmas night just to keep a bank vault sealed.
Vincent didn't yell. He didn't even flinch. He simply turned to Marco. ""Hand him over to Captain Miller in the 19th Precinct. Give Miller the wire transfer records from Julian's shell account. Let the NYPD handle the shooter. Julian, however... belongs to me.""
""Vincent, wait,"" I called out, stepping down the concrete steps into the cold cellar.
Vincent spun around, his expression softening instantly as he noticed my bare arms shivering against the basement draft. He immediately walked over, placing himself between me and the bloodied man on the floor. ""Anna, you shouldn't be down here.""
""I need to know what's in that vault,"" I said, looking directly into his eyes. ""Julian isn't just trying to protect stolen money. Four million dollars is pocket change to a family like the Bennetts. He tried to kill me because whatever Clara locked away will destroy him completely.""
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Vincent studied my face for a long moment, seeing the determination hardening my jaw. The broken, frightened homeless girl on the church steps was fading, replaced by the daughter of Margaret Hale—a woman who had fought through hardship with iron resilience.
""Tomorrow morning, at eight AM,"" Vincent stated. ""We take an armored motorcade straight to Manhattan Central Bank. Whatever Clara left for you, Anna... we bring it to light.""
