Chapter 5 - Isabella’s Choice
Michael rushed forward, grabbing the hysterical bridesmaid and pulling her into one of the empty administrative offices to silence her screams. The corridor was unnervingly quiet now, save for the muffled sobs coming from the office.
Vincent didn't look at the dead men. He stepped over the bodies with chilling indifference and moved straight toward the heavy, reinforced steel door at the end of the hall. It was the security control room.
The door had been blown open by a localized explosive charge. Black scorch marks stained the walls, and the smell of sulfur and burnt copper hung heavy in the air.
Vincent peeked inside. The room was empty of life, but the massive wall of security monitors was still active, powered by an independent backup system. Most importantly, the massive titanium door to the hotel’s master vault, located in the back of the room, stood wide open.
Empty.
“He got it,” Michael said, stepping out of the office and looking into the barren vault. “Fifty million dollars in cash and diamonds. Gone.”
Isabella stood in the doorway, staring at the empty safe. Her hands covered her mouth. The reality of her father’s betrayal was fully sinking in. He hadn't just tried to murder her new family; he had stolen her wedding gifts. He had used the most important day of her life as a smokescreen for a heist.
“Look,” Grace pointed at the bank of security monitors.
While the ballroom cameras were blacked out, the basement garage feeds were perfectly clear. On the main screen, they could see Anthony DeLuca. He was standing in the underground loading dock, dressed in an immaculate grey suit, casually smoking a cigar while six heavily armed mercenaries loaded heavy black duffel bags into the back of two armored SUVs.
“He’s leaving,” Michael growled. “If those trucks get out of the garage, we’ll never find him.”
Vincent leaned against the console, his eyes locked on the screen. He turned to Isabella.
“Isabella,” Vincent said, his tone devoid of any fatherly warmth. “Your father is about to leave you to die in a locked ballroom while he escapes with fifty million dollars. I need to know, right now, whose side you are on.”
Isabella looked at Vincent, then at Michael. Her lower lip trembled, but the tears abruptly stopped. A sudden, cold rage replaced the fear in her eyes. She reached down, grabbed the heavy fabric of her expensive wedding dress, and ripped it up to her knees so she could run without tripping.
“I am a Romano now,” she said, her voice dripping with venom. “Let’s go kill my father.”
Vincent smiled for the first time all night. It was a terrifying expression.
He walked over to the dead Romano security chief lying in the hallway. He unstrapped the heavy, tactical holster from the man’s waist, pulling out a sleek, fully loaded Glock 19. He didn't hand it to Michael. He didn't hand it to Isabella.
He walked over to Grace.
He held the gun out to the waitress by the barrel.
Grace stared at the weapon. Her hands shook. “I… I don’t know how to use that. I pour champagne. I clear plates.”
“You observe,” Vincent corrected her. “You saw a single grain of white powder on a glass from ten feet away. You mapped out a hotel’s blueprint under heavy fire. You have the instincts of a survivor, Grace. Right now, pouring champagne isn't going to keep you breathing.”
Grace hesitated, her heart hammering against her ribs. She looked at the blood on her cheap black uniform. She looked at the terrifying men around her. She realized her old life had ended the moment she stopped Vincent from drinking that glass.
May you like
She reached out and took the heavy gun.
“Good,” Vincent said. “Now, take us to the loading dock.”
