Chapter 6 - THE TRAP ON THE DOCKS
“What do you mean?” Uncle Sal demanded, taking a half-step toward Nico’s wheelchair before stopping himself.
Nico reached out and tapped the silver call button on his armrest.
“I mean that my father wasn't an idiot,” Nico said, his voice ringing clearly off the high ceiling. “He knew before he died that someone in our inner circle was leaking shipping manifests to the Ashcroft syndicate. The ledgers in the floor safe were photocopies coated with a reactive chemical marker. The real ledgers—the ones containing every offshore account, every federal bribe, and every illicit transaction involving your name, Sal—were mailed to the federal prosecutor’s office in downtown Chicago at midnight last night.”
Silence slammed into the dining room.
Richard Ashcroft stood up slowly, his sophisticated facade finally shattering completely. “You bluffing, boy. If you federalized those accounts, you’ve destroyed your own empire along with ours.”
“My empire was built on blood and lies,” Nico said, his dark eyes locking onto Richard’s panic-stricken face. “And I’d rather burn it to the ground than let you and my uncle turn me into a prisoner in my own home.”
Camille screamed—a sharp, shrill sound of absolute fury—and lunged across the table toward Nico, her fingernails clawing outward.
I didn't hesitate. I stepped directly in front of Nico’s wheelchair, catching Camille by both wrists and shoving her back against the mahogany sideboard with enough force to send silver spoons clattering onto the floor.
“Get your hands off me, you trash!” Camille shrieked, struggling against my grip.
“Call the guards, Sal!” Richard roared, backing toward the double doors. “Get those ledgers back before the marshals reach the warehouse!”
Uncle Sal turned toward the door, but before he could take a step, the heavy oak doors burst inward.
It wasn't Richard’s men.
Three federal marshals in tactical vests, led by an FBI Special Agent holding a signed federal search warrant, flooded the dining room, weapons drawn and pointed straight at Richard Ashcroft and Uncle Sal.
“Richard Ashcroft, Sal Alfieri,” the lead agent called out, his voice echoing off the limestone walls. “You’re under arrest for conspiracy, wire fraud, and medical tampering resulting in severe bodily harm.”
Sal froze, his hands hovering in mid-air as steel handcuffs clicked around his wrists. Richard tried to reach for his jacket pocket, but one of the marshals slammed him facedown against the mahogany table, pinning him instantly.
Camille stared in absolute horror as federal agents flanked her father, her designer dress brushing against the spilled coffee. She looked at Nico, her voice trembling with disbelief.
“You ruined us,” she whispered, tears of rage spilling down her cheeks. “You ruined everything!”
Nico didn't look at her. He didn't look at his uncle. His eyes remained fixed on me, standing beside his wheelchair with my chest heaving and my hands steady.
“It’s over,” Nico murmured softly.
May you like
“Not quite yet,” I said, looking down at the digital tablet I had slipped out of my pocket while the marshals secured the room. “Dr. Vance’s clinic just sent over your updated morning lab results. The synthetic sedatives are completely out of your bloodstream.”
Nico blinked. He stared at his legs—at the heavy black trousers resting over his knees. Slowly, deliberately, he gripped the wooden armrests of his wheelchair, set his jaw, and pushed himself upward for the first time in eight months.
