Blood on the White Roses

“Move out of my way, Isabella,” Anthony growled, wiping the chemical foam from his eyes. He reached into his coat, pulling out his own weapon. “You’re acting like a hysterical child. Come with me right now, and I’ll forgive you for this stupidity.”

Isabella’s hands shook, but the barrel of the gun remained perfectly level. “You tried to kill my husband. You tried to frame me for murdering my father-in-law. You stole my wedding gifts. And you call me stupid?”

“It was business!” Anthony shouted, stepping closer. The sounds of coughing and distant gunfire echoed through the mist around them. “The Romanos are dinosaurs, Isabella. They operate on honor and respect. That doesn't make money anymore. I did this for our family. I did this for you!”

“You did this for yourself,” she spat, tears mixing with the foam on her face.

Anthony’s face hardened. All pretense of fatherly love vanished. He raised his gun, pointing it at his own daughter’s forehead. “I won’t ask you again, little girl. Drop the weapon, or I’ll leave you on this floor with the rest of the garbage.”

A heavy silence fell between them, broken only by the hiss of the suppression system.

Isabella looked at the man who had raised her. She saw the cold, dead eyes of a shark. She finally understood that she had never been a daughter to him; she had only ever been an asset.

“You’re right, Dad,” Isabella whispered. “It’s just business.”

Before Anthony could pull the trigger, Isabella squeezed hers.

The gunshot was deafening. The bullet struck Anthony squarely in his right shoulder, spinning him around with brutal force. He screamed, dropping his gun and the duffel bag of cash, collapsing onto the foam-covered concrete.

The white mist began to settle, clearing enough for Vincent and Michael to walk forward. Michael rushed to Isabella, pulling her into a tight embrace, kissing the top of her foam-covered head. She buried her face in his chest, finally letting the shock take over.

Vincent stood over Anthony DeLuca, looking down at the bleeding billionaire with a mixture of pity and disgust.

“You lost, Anthony,” Vincent said quietly.

Anthony clutched his bleeding shoulder, his face pale and slick with sweat. He looked up at Vincent, a hateful sneer on his lips. “You think you won? You think you survived? Half the police force in this city is on my payroll. When they get here, they’re going to arrest you for this massacre. You’ll die in prison, Romano.”

Vincent chuckled. It was a rich, dark sound.

“You always underestimated me, Anthony,” Vincent said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a small, encrypted satellite phone. “Did you really think I didn’t know you were moving against me? Did you really think I didn’t know about the poisoned glass before I sat down?”

Anthony’s eyes widened in horror. “What?”

“I let you lock the doors. I let you think you had the upper hand,” Vincent explained coldly. “Because I needed you to commit. I needed you to openly declare war so I could legally massacre your men and seize your assets. As for your corrupt police officers? I forwarded the security footage of your men slaughtering the hotel guards to the FBI twenty minutes ago, right before your jammer went off.”

Distant sirens began to wail, cutting through the quiet night air. Dozens of them. Coming closer.