Chapter 6 - THE OLD WINTER COAT
"Hold your fire!" Ethan's voice roared up the iron spiral staircase.
Footsteps echoed on the metal grates, stopping just out of sight. Ethan slowly stepped onto the top landing, his hands raised, his weapon holstered.
"Let him go, Marcus," Ethan pleaded, his eyes locked on his crying son. "You want my signature? You want the deeds? Hand me the pen. I'll give you everything."
"It's not just about the money anymore, Ethan," Marcus snarled, tightening his grip on the boy. "It's about the legacy. Your father destroyed my family's name. The only way I clear it is with the original ledger."
Marcus turned his gun slightly toward me. "And the little maid here knows exactly where her mother hid it."
I stood frozen. My mother had never mentioned a mafia ledger. She was a quiet, exhausted woman who came home smelling of bleach and lemon polish. She had nothing to do with the Blackwells' bloody history.
"I don't know what you're talking about," I said, my voice trembling.
"Think!" Marcus shouted. "Before she died, what did she give you? A safety deposit key? A locked box?"
I desperately searched my memories. The hospital room. The steady beep of the heart monitor. My mother holding my hand, telling me to keep my dignity.
And then I remembered her final request.
“Lucy, take my old winter coat. The heavy wool one with the brass buttons. Never throw it away. Keep it safe.”
I had thought it was just sentimental rambling. I still wore that coat every single day. It was currently hanging in the staff locker room back at the Blackwell mansion.
"The coat," I breathed, the realization hitting me like a physical blow. "She hid it in the lining of her winter coat."
Marcus smiled, a terrifying, victorious grin. "Excellent. Ethan, sign the papers on the table. Then you and I are taking a ride back to your mansion to get that coat."
"I'm not signing anything while you're holding a gun to my son," Ethan said, holding his ground.
"You don't have a choice!" Marcus yelled, distracted by his own rage.
That was all the opening little Leo needed.
The five-year-old boy, terrified but possessing his father's fierce survival instinct, sank his teeth as hard as he could into Marcus's wrist.
Marcus howled in pain, his grip loosening for a fraction of a second.
Leo dropped to the floor and scrambled toward me.
Ethan drew his weapon with lightning speed, but Marcus was faster. He didn't aim at Ethan. He leveled the gun directly at Leo's retreating back.
I threw myself across the iron grating, wrapping my arms around the boy just as the gunshot deafened the small room.
A sharp, burning agony sliced across my shoulder.
I hit the floor hard, shielding Leo beneath my body.
Ethan fired twice.
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Marcus staggered backward, dropping his weapon as the bullets hit his chest. He slammed against the rusted iron railing of the lantern room. The metal groaned, snapped, and gave way.
Marcus Vance tipped backward into the fog, disappearing into the crashing black waves a hundred feet below.
