Chapter 5 - Gunfire and Truth
The gunshot was deafening inside the enclosed library. The recoil bucked hard against my palms, but my stance held firm.
The bullet struck Dominic directly in the right shoulder. His revolver flew from his grasp, clattering across the wet floor, and he let out a strangled roar of shock and pain, stumbling back against a wall of leather-bound books. Blood instantly soaked through his designer tactical vest.
He looked up, staring at me in sheer disbelief. ""You... you miserable little bitch—""
Before he could lunge for his fallen weapon, Vincent was already on his feet like a coiled spring. He closed the distance in a fraction of a second, his fist crashing into Dominic’s jaw with a sickening crack that sent his younger brother crashing through a glass coffee table. Shards exploded across the Persian rug.
Vincent planted his heavy dress boot firmly on Dominic's shattered shoulder, applying just enough pressure to make the younger man scream in agony.
""The girl has better aim than David ever did,"" Vincent said, his voice deadly quiet. He reached down and retrieved Dominic's fallen revolver, thumbing back the hammer with a cold metallic click. ""Who paid for the mercenaries, Dominic? The Russian syndicate? Or the families in Chicago?""
Dominic spat blood onto Vincent’s leather shoe, laughing through cracked teeth. ""You think you’ve won? Look out the terrace, Vincent! The police are already on their way, tipped off that you slaughtered David Vane and abducted an innocent civilian! Even if you kill me, the FBI will tear this building apart. You're finished!""
Sirens began wailing in the distance, their red and blue strobes painting the low rainclouds hanging over Central Park.
Vincent glanced over his shoulder at me. ""Rowan, go to my desk. In the third drawer, there is a silver thumb drive with an encrypted red label. Bring it to me.""
I hurried to the massive mahogany desk, ripped open the drawer, and grabbed the small drive. As I did, my hand brushed against a framed photograph sitting behind a stack of papers.
I froze.
The photograph showed a middle-aged man standing beside a young Vincent fifteen years ago. But around the older man's neck was a delicate silver pendant featuring an ivy leaf entwined with an emerald.
I reached up unconsciously to touch the tiny silver pendant resting against my own collarbone—the exact same heirloom my grandmother had given me on her deathbed, telling me it was the only piece of heritage my runaway mother had left behind.
""Vincent..."" I breathed, turning toward him with wide eyes. ""Where did your father get this pendant?""
Vincent stared at me, his gaze dropping to the necklace visible beneath my sweater’s neckline. The cold fury in his eyes dissolved into pure, stunned realization.
""Rowan..."" Vincent whispered, the pistol lowering an inch. ""Your grandmother’s name... was it Clara?""
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""Yes,"" I stammered, my head spinning faster than the wailing sirens outside. ""Clara Mercer.""
Dominic suddenly began laughing hysterically from the floor, coughing up flecks of blood. ""Look at that! The grand secret is out! Tell her, Vincent! Tell the little orphan girl why her mother had to run away from New York twenty-five years ago!""
