Chapter 5 - THE STANDOFF
The realization that Vincent had tried to burn us alive seventeen years ago hit me with the force of a physical blow.
My hands shook violently as I stared at the charred ledger page. Dom’s raspy, labored breathing from the other bed was no longer just a medical condition; it was a scar inflicted by the man sleeping under this very roof.
I didn't sleep that night. I sat in a chair facing the locked bedroom door, the nail scissors gripped tightly in my fist, the burnt ledger safely tucked inside my bra.
The next morning, the estate was eerily quiet.
I left Dom sleeping and ventured downstairs. The kitchen was massive, gleaming with copper pots and stainless steel. A maid informed me that Marco had left at dawn for a corporate emergency.
My stomach plummeted. Marco was gone.
I found Giana in the sunroom, sitting in a wicker chair, staring out at the frost-covered gardens. She looked incredibly fragile in the harsh morning light.
"Mrs. Ferraro," I said softly, approaching her.
She turned, her eyes clouded. "Are you the new nurse?"
"No," I said, crouching beside her chair. "I'm Nora. Elena's daughter."
Giana blinked. A flicker of recognition sparked, then faded. "Elena made wonderful tea. But she had to go away. It was too hot."
Too hot. The fire.
Before I could ask her anything else, the heavy oak doors of the sunroom swung open.
Vincent walked in. He wasn't alone. Flanking him were two large men wearing sterile white uniforms, the kind orderlies wore at psychiatric facilities.
"Good morning, Nora," Vincent smiled, buttoning his suit jacket. "I'm glad you're here. You can help Giana gather her things."
I stood up, stepping between Vincent and Giana’s chair. "Gather her things for what?"
"As I discussed with my nephew last night, Giana’s condition has deteriorated," Vincent said smoothly, though his pale eyes were locked on me like a predator. "I have secured a court order for medical conservatorship. These gentlemen are here to transport her to a secure memory-care facility."
"Marco said she stays here."
"Marco is currently dealing with a massive labor strike at our shipping ports," Vincent chuckled softly. "A strike I orchestrated this morning to ensure he would be unavailable. Now, step aside, little girl."
Giana began to whimper, pulling her shawl tightly around her shoulders. "I don't want to go in the van, Vincent. It smells like medicine."
"You are not taking her," I said. My voice didn't shake. I felt the sharp edges of the burnt ledger pressing against my ribs, fueling a cold, absolute rage.
The two orderlies stepped forward, their faces blank, ready to physically move me.
"Hey."
A new voice cut through the room.
I turned. Dom was standing in the doorway. He was wearing his sweatpants and a faded hoodie, but he was holding a heavy brass fire poker he had taken from the living room hearth.
He didn't look like a sick teenager. He looked exactly like a kid who had grown up in the worst neighborhoods in Chicago, ready to defend his sister.
"She said you aren't taking her," Dom said, his grip tightening on the brass handle.
Vincent paused, looking at Dom, taking in the pale skin and the slight wheeze in my brother’s breathing.
A cruel, knowing smile spread across Vincent’s face.
"Ah," Vincent whispered, taking a slow step toward Dom. "The brother. You have asthma, don't you, son? Terrible thing. I read your medical file this morning. Severe smoke inhalation as an infant."
My blood ran ice cold.
"Don't talk to him," I snapped.
Vincent ignored me, his eyes locked on Dom. "Fires are so tragic. They consume everything. Evidence. Memories. Nuisance hotel maids who see things they shouldn't." Vincent lowered his voice to a hiss. "If you don't drop that poker, boy, I will make sure the next fire finishes the job."
Dom didn't flinch, but his knuckles went white.
"Vincent."
The voice came from the hallway behind Dom.
It was quiet. It was perfectly level. And it carried the promise of absolute violence.
Marco stepped into the doorway, placing a gentle hand on Dom's shoulder to move the teenager aside.
Marco was not wearing his suit jacket. His tie was undone, his sleeves rolled up, revealing a thick, jagged scar running down his left forearm. He looked at the two orderlies, and then at his uncle.
"I told you," Marco said, stepping into the sunroom. "She stays in this house."
Vincent sneered, holding up a folded legal document. "I have a judge's signature, Marco. She is a danger to herself. You can't stop a medical transport legally."
"I am not a lawyer, Vincent," Marco said. He didn't raise his voice. He didn't have to.
He moved so fast I barely registered it. Marco crossed the room in three strides, grabbed the closest orderly by the throat, and slammed him backward into the heavy wooden doorframe. The man’s eyes rolled back, and he slumped to the floor, unconscious.
The second orderly reached for a taser on his belt, but Marco drove his fist into the man's ribs with a sickening crunch. The man dropped to his knees, gasping for air.
Vincent took a terrified step backward, dropping the court order.
Marco stood over the groaning orderly, shaking out his bruised knuckles. He looked at Vincent, his dark eyes entirely devoid of mercy.
"Get out of my house," Marco whispered.
Vincent scrambled toward the door, his composed corporate facade entirely shattered. But before he left, he shot a venomous glare at me.
"She doesn't belong here, Marco," Vincent spat. "And whatever she thinks she knows, she can't prove."
Vincent fled.
Marco exhaled heavily, turning to me. "Are you hurt?"
"No," I said, my heart hammering.
Giana stood up from her wicker chair. She walked past Marco, ignoring the unconscious men on the floor, and stopped directly in front of me.
The fog in her eyes was gone again. The violence seemed to have shocked her back into the present.
"He thinks he burned it," Giana said, her voice clear and resonant. "He thinks Elena burned with the book."
I stared at her, then reached into my shirt, pulling out the charred ledger page. "She saved this page. She hid it in her coat."
Marco looked at the page, recognizing his uncle's signature instantly. The realization hit him—Vincent had killed his father, framed Elena, and tried to burn her alive.
"One page isn't enough for the board," Marco said, his jaw locked in fury. "We need the whole ledger to legally strip him of the company."
Giana reached up to the high collar of her velvet dress. With trembling fingers, she gripped the thick seam at her neckline and pulled hard.
The velvet tore.
May you like
From inside the lining, a small, heavy brass key fell into her palm.
"Elena gave the ledger back to me at the train station," Giana whispered, pressing the brass key into my hand. "I hid it where Vincent could never look. Because he never goes to church."
