Chapter 4 - THE PRICE OF BLOOD
The sight of the gun aimed at the seven-year-old child sent a shockwave of primal terror through the room.
Vanessa screamed, a raw, tearing sound, and threw herself toward Lily. But Vincent moved faster. He shoved Vanessa hard to the side, grabbed Lily by the waist, and pulled her behind the solid mahogany dining table, shielding the child’s small body with his own.
“Don't move!” the scarred man barked, shifting his aim to Vincent’s chest. The two men behind him drew their weapons, fanning out to cover the room.
I stood frozen near the sideboard, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. In my twenty-eight years of managing this household, I had seen anger, betrayal, and cruelty. But I had never seen the cold, mechanical reality of murder standing in my dining room.
Henry Moretti took a step backward, raising his hands in a frantic, placating gesture.
“Victor, what are you doing here?” Henry hissed, his sophisticated facade completely shattered. He looked pathetic, a cornered rat in an Italian suit. “I told you the transfer would be finalized by midnight. You shouldn't have come to the house.”
The man named Victor let out a dry, rattling laugh. “Midnight? That’s funny, Henry. Because my banker called me an hour ago. The shadow accounts are frozen. The ‘West Exit Trust’ has been drained. You tried to cut and run.”
Henry’s eyes darted wildly. “That’s impossible! I didn't—”
“He didn't freeze the accounts,” Vincent’s voice echoed from behind the table. He stood up slowly, keeping himself firmly between the gunmen and Lily. He smoothed his suit jacket with an eerie, terrifying calm. “I did.”
Henry whipped his head around, staring at his nephew in horror. “You?”
“My mother wasn't just looking for proof of your crimes before she died,” Vincent said coldly. “She found the routing numbers. She gave them to my accountants three days before she passed. I’ve been quietly dismantling your shadow empire for five years, Henry. Tonight, I pulled the final plug.”
Vanessa slowly crawled up from the floor, clutching the edge of the table. She looked at Henry, the man she had viewed as a savior, a father figure who had paid for her entire life.
“You paid this man to burn down the warehouse?” Vanessa asked, her voice trembling with disbelief and rage. “You killed my father?”
Henry looked at her, his eyes cold and devoid of the paternal warmth he had faked for decades. “Your father was a pawn, Vanessa. A collateral necessity. Richard was bankrupting this family. He refused to sell the art collection in that warehouse, refused to claim the insurance. I had to create a crisis to save the Moretti legacy.”
“You burned a man alive for insurance money,” James whispered in disgust.
“I didn't lock the door!” Henry shouted, pointing a shaking finger at Vincent. “Tell them the truth, Victor! Tell them who paid you to lock the west exit!”
Victor smiled, a grotesque twisting of his scarred face. He kept the gun leveled on Vincent. “Henry paid me to light the match. But the padlock? The chain? That was a special request from the boss himself.”
Victor looked directly at Vincent.
“Your father, Richard, gave me the lock, kid. He knew the watchman was asking too many questions about the missing inventory. He told me to make sure Thomas Rossi didn't walk out of that building.”
The words struck Vincent like a physical blow. He staggered backward a half-step, his face draining of color.
“No,” Vincent breathed. “My father was a good man.”
“Your father was a coward who let his brother do his dirty work,” Henry spat. “He wanted the insurance money, but he didn't want the blood on his hands. When the fire got out of control, Richard panicked. He tried to run into the building to unlock the door, to play the hero. That’s how he inhaled the smoke that killed him five days later.”
Vanessa dropped to her knees, sobbing uncontrollably. The two men she had been told to revere—her benefactor and her fiancé’s father—were the architects of her father’s agonizing death.
I looked at James. The elderly guard’s hands were balled into tight fists at his sides. He had carried the guilt of Thomas Rossi’s death for thirty-four years, believing he had somehow failed. Now, looking at the men responsible, his quiet dignity was transforming into a quiet, dangerous resolve.
“So, what happens now, Victor?” Vincent asked, his voice steadying. He subtly shifted his stance, bracing his weight on the balls of his feet.
“Now, Henry signs over the liquid assets to my offshore account, like he promised,” Victor said, gesturing with his gun. “Or the little girl catches a bullet, and we burn this mansion down just like we did the warehouse.”
“Lily has nothing to do with this,” Vanessa begged, crawling toward Victor. “Please, take me. Take me instead.”
One of Victor’s thugs stepped forward and viciously kicked Vanessa in the stomach, sending her sprawling across the hardwood floor.
“Mommy!” Lily screamed, trying to run from behind the table.
Vincent caught her arm, pulling her back. His dark eyes locked onto Victor, and the mafia boss that the city of Chicago feared finally surfaced.
“You made a mistake coming into my house, Victor,” Vincent said, his voice dropping to a lethal murmur.
“I have three guns on you, Vincent. You have a salad fork. I think I made a great decision.”
“You forgot about the staff,” I said clearly.
Victor blinked, turning his head slightly toward me. “What did you say, old woman?”
I reached behind the silver soup tureen on the sideboard. I didn't grab a fork. I grabbed the heavy, cast-iron fireplace poker I had quietly moved there when I first escorted the guests out.
With a speed born of pure adrenaline, I swung the iron rod as hard as I could, smashing it directly into the heavy crystal chandelier controls on the wall.
Sparks showered the room.
The dining room plunged into absolute, pitch-black darkness.
“Get the girl!” Victor roared in the dark.
Chaos erupted. I heard the deafening crack of a gunshot. Wood splintered above my head. Someone screamed.
I dropped to the floor, crawling blindly toward the sound of Vanessa weeping. I found her hand in the dark and pulled her toward the swinging doors of the kitchen.
“Where’s Lily?!” Vanessa shrieked in the dark.
“I have her!” Vincent shouted over the din.
Another gunshot rang out, followed by the sickening thud of a heavy body hitting the floor.
Then, a voice cut through the darkness. It was calm, steady, and commanded absolute authority.
“Drop the weapons. Or the next bullet goes through your skull, Victor.”
It was James.
The emergency backup lights in the hallway flickered on, casting a dim, eerie glow into the dining room.
Victor was standing perfectly still.
James stood directly behind him. The 73-year-old retired guard was holding a matte-black service revolver pressed firmly against the base of the scarred man’s skull.
I recognized the gun. It was the weapon Vincent kept secured under the dining table for emergencies. In the darkness, James had known exactly where to look.
Victor slowly raised his hands, his gun dangling from his index finger.
The two thugs hesitated, looking at their boss.
“Drop them,” James repeated softly. He pulled the hammer back with a sharp, terrifying click. “I failed Thomas Rossi thirty-four years ago. I will not fail his daughter today.”
Victor swallowed hard. He nodded to his men.
The thugs dropped their guns. They clattered loudly on the wooden floor.
For a second, I thought the nightmare was over. I exhaled a breath I felt like I had been holding for hours.
But I had forgotten about Henry.
In the dim light, I saw movement out of the corner of my eye.
Henry had picked up one of the dropped guns. He wasn't aiming at James. He wasn't aiming at Vincent.
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He was aiming directly at Lily.
“Nobody moves!” Henry screamed, his face contorted in absolute madness. “Vincent, you will sign over the estate to me right now, or I blow this child’s heart out of her chest!”
