Chapter 5 - THE WIFE'S CONFESSION
The flooded garage fell into a deafening, horrifying silence.
The only sound was the steady drip-drip-drip of water falling from the broken pipes.
Vincent stared at the gold necklace resting against the mercenary’s collarbone. The intricate gold cross, studded with tiny diamonds. He had bought it for Clara on their fifth anniversary. He knew every scratch on it.
“You’re lying,” Vincent said, his voice barely a hollow rasp. He took a slow, terrifying step forward. “You stole it from her. When you kidnapped her.”
The woman laughed again, coughing up a mixture of water and blood. “She gave it to me, you idiot. As a down payment. She said if I wore the coat and the necklace, you’d walk right into the trap like a lovesick puppy.”
Vincent lunged forward, but Santiago caught him by the shoulder, hauling him back with a grunt of pain.
“Vincent, hold!” Santiago commanded.
“She’s lying!” Vincent roared, thrashing against his best friend’s grip. The stoic enforcer was completely unraveling. “Clara wouldn’t do this! She loves me! She loves Mateo!”
“Clara loves power, Vincent,” a new voice echoed from the dark stairwell.
Everyone froze.
The heavy metal door of the stairwell swung open with a screech.
Stepping out into the dim red light, wearing a tailored black suit that looked completely out of place in the ruined garage, was a woman.
She was beautiful, her dark hair pulled back flawlessly, her posture immaculate.
It was Clara.
She wasn't tied up. She wasn't bruised. She held a sleek, silver suppressed pistol in her right hand, casually aimed at the floor.
Behind her stood four heavily armed men.
Vincent stopped fighting. He stared at his wife as if she were a ghost. The air completely left his lungs.
“Clara?” Vincent whispered, dropping to his knees in the puddles. He looked up at her with eyes full of desperate, shattered hope. “What are you doing? They have Mateo.”
Clara didn't rush to comfort him. She didn't drop her weapon. She looked at her husband with an expression of mild pity, the way one looks at a wounded animal.
“Mateo is perfectly safe, Vincent,” Clara said smoothly. Her voice was calm, devoid of any fear. “He’s upstairs in the East Wing, playing on his tablet. My father is watching him.”
“Your father?” Santiago asked, his voice dark and dangerous. “You mean Dr. Evans? The man I just watched bleed out on the floor of my hospital room?”
Clara flinched. For a fraction of a second, the immaculate mask cracked. A flash of genuine grief crossed her eyes, quickly replaced by a furious, burning hatred.
“You killed him,” Clara hissed, raising the silver pistol and pointing it directly at Santiago’s chest.
“I didn't pull the trigger,” Santiago said coldly. “Your partners in the hallway did. They killed him to tie up a loose end after he failed to switch my IV.”
“He wouldn't have had to do it if you hadn't ruined our lives!” Clara screamed, losing her composure. She stepped forward, the gun shaking in her hand. “Ten years ago, my family owned the largest pharmaceutical distribution company in the Midwest. We were legitimate. We were clean. Until your father decided he wanted our supply lines.”
Santiago went very still. He knew the history. The Moretti family had aggressively hostile-taken the Evans pharmaceutical company, using brutal intimidation to force them into bankruptcy before buying the assets for pennies.
“Your father destroyed my grandfather,” Clara spat, tears of pure rage spilling over her perfectly manicured cheeks. “My family lost everything. My father, Dr. Evans, was forced to grovel to become a hospital administrator just to pay off the debts your family buried us in.”
She turned her furious glare toward Vincent, who was still kneeling in the dirty water, staring at her in absolute shock.
“I didn't marry you because I loved you, Vincent,” Clara said, her voice dropping to a cruel, deliberate whisper. “I married you to get close to the throne. I spent six years playing the perfect, submissive mob wife. Cooking your dinners. Raising your son. Waiting for the perfect moment to cut the head off the snake.”
Vincent let out a broken, agonizing sob. The man who had killed dozens without blinking was entirely destroyed by a few words. “Mateo… he’s my son.”
“He is my son,” Clara corrected fiercely. “And he is going to inherit everything. When Santiago dies tonight, the Moretti empire crumbles. And my new partners have agreed to give my family our distribution lines back, with interest.”
“Your new partners,” Santiago repeated, his mind racing. He looked past Clara to the armed men in the shadows. “You really think Leo is going to honor a deal with you? My brother is a rabid dog. He’ll use you to kill me, and then he’ll put a bullet in your head and take the boy anyway.”
Clara laughed bitterly. “Leo is a brute, but he’s a predictable brute. He wants the throne. He wants revenge. I just want my family’s legacy back.”
“You’ve already lost it,” Santiago said softly. “Your father is dead. Because you put him in the crossfire.”
The truth hit Clara like a physical blow. Her hand trembled violently. The guilt she had been suppressing finally broke to the surface. She raised the gun, aiming it dead at the center of Santiago’s chest.
“Goodbye, Santiago,” Clara whispered.
BANG.
The gunshot echoed deafeningly in the enclosed garage.
But Santiago didn't fall.
Clara gasped, her eyes going wide with shock. A small, dark red flower bloomed in the center of her pristine white blouse.
She looked down at her chest in utter disbelief. The silver pistol slipped from her fingers, clattering into the water.
She swayed on her feet, and then collapsed backward onto the wet concrete.
Vincent screamed, lunging forward to catch her, but the four armed men behind her stepped forward, aiming their rifles at him, forcing him back.
Stepping out from the dark stairwell, holding a smoking, heavy-caliber hand cannon, was a massive figure.
He was incredibly tall, wearing a tailored black trench coat that fluttered in the damp draft of the garage. His dark hair was slicked back, heavily silvering at the temples. A jagged, horrific burn scar covered the entire left side of his face—the permanent reminder of a fiery car crash six years ago.
It was Leo Moretti.
Santiago’s older brother.
Leo lowered his smoking gun, looking down at Clara’s lifeless body with absolute apathy.
“She talked too much,” Leo grumbled, his voice a deep, gravelly baritone that vibrated in the chest. He looked up, his one good eye locking onto Santiago.
A cruel, twisted smile spread across the unscarred half of his face.
“Hello, little brother,” Leo said, stepping over the dead woman. “You look terrible.”
Santiago didn't flinch. He stood tall, despite the blood loss, looking his resurrected brother dead in the eye.
“You’re supposed to be dead, Leo,” Santiago said calmly.
“And you were supposed to die in your sleep an hour ago,” Leo shot back, shrugging his massive shoulders. “It seems the Moretti boys are remarkably stubborn.”
Leo snapped his fingers.
Two of the heavily armed mercenaries turned back into the stairwell. A moment later, they emerged, dragging something between them.
Vincent let out a guttural, terrifying roar of pure anguish.
The mercenaries were dragging a terrified, weeping five-year-old boy. He was wearing Spiderman pajamas, clutching a small, stuffed bear.
“Daddy!” little Mateo screamed, thrashing against the massive men holding him by the arms.
“Mateo!” Vincent screamed, trying to surge forward, but a mercenary slammed the butt of a rifle into his chest, dropping him back to his knees.
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Leo reached out and casually grabbed the terrified boy by the collar of his pajamas, lifting him slightly off the ground like a ragdoll. Mateo sobbed, terrified by the scarred giant holding him.
“Now, little brother,” Leo smiled, pulling a folded legal document from his trench coat pocket with his free hand. “Let’s talk about my inheritance.”
