Chapter 8 - THE SILVER LOCKET
The suppressed pistol coughed—a sharp, quiet pfft that sounded entirely too small for the amount of damage it caused.
Audrey jerked backward as the bullet caught her in the shoulder, but momentum and pure adrenaline carried her forward. She crashed into Carlo, swinging the heavy glass bottle of Barolo with every ounce of strength she had left.
The bottle shattered against the side of Carlo’s head in an explosion of thick red wine and broken glass.
Carlo roared in pain, stumbling backward and dropping the gun.
“Run, Nell!” Audrey screamed, collapsing to the stone floor, clutching her bleeding shoulder. “Get her out!”
I didn’t hesitate. I scooped Millie into my arms—she was heavy, but terror gave me strength I didn’t know I possessed—and bolted for the service tunnel door.
We plunged into the pitch-black tunnel. The air was damp and smelled of earth and old brick. I ran blindly, my hand trailing along the cold stone wall to guide us. Millie buried her face in my neck, sobbing silently.
“We’re almost there, baby,” I gasped, my lungs burning. “Just hold on.”
We reached the carriage house. The heavy wooden door was cracked open, letting in a sliver of moonlight and the sound of pouring rain.
I pushed the door open and stumbled into the garage. It was empty. The black sedan Audrey had tried to use earlier was gone—likely moved by Marco’s men during the lockdown.
We were trapped at the edge of the property.
Footsteps echoed from the tunnel behind us. Heavy, uneven, angry boots.
Carlo.
“There’s nowhere to go, Nell!” his voice boomed through the dark corridor. “The gates are locked down. The walls are electrified. Hand over the kid, and I’ll let you walk away!”
I backed into the darkest corner of the carriage house, crouching behind a stack of wooden landscaping crates. I set Millie down gently on the concrete floor.
“Millie,” I whispered, taking her small face in my hands. “I need you to stay right here. Do not make a sound. Do you understand?”
She nodded, tears mixing with the dirt on her cheeks. She held up the rag doll.
“Keep it,” I told her. I took the glossy photograph—the proof of Carlo’s treason—and shoved it deep into the pocket of her yellow raincoat. “Keep this safe for your daddy.”
I stood up and stepped out from behind the crates just as Carlo emerged from the tunnel.
His face was a mask of blood and wine. He was holding a large hunting knife he must have pulled from his tactical vest. He smiled when he saw me standing alone in the center of the garage.
“Where’s the princess?” he asked, taking a slow step toward me.
“She’s gone,” I lied, backing away to draw him away from Millie’s hiding spot. “She ran into the woods.”
“You’re a terrible liar, Nell,” Carlo chuckled. He lunged forward, surprisingly fast for a wounded man, and grabbed me by the throat. He slammed me against the brick wall of the carriage house.
The impact knocked the breath out of me. He pressed the cold steel of the knife against my cheek.
“I’m going to ask you one more time,” Carlo hissed, his breath smelling of copper and rage. “Where is she?”
“Go to hell,” I choked out.
Answer one: Carlo wasn’t going to let me walk away. He was going to kill anyone who stood between him and total control of the family.
He raised the knife, his eyes devoid of any human empathy.
Suddenly, the heavy metal garage doors at the front of the carriage house violently buckled inward.
A massive black armored SUV smashed through the reinforced steel doors like they were made of paper. Wood and metal shrapnel exploded into the garage, raining down on us.
Carlo dropped me, throwing his arms up to shield his face from the debris.
The SUV screeched to a halt inches from us. The driver’s side door kicked open.
Vincenzo Moretti stepped out into the rain and the headlights.
He looked like the wrath of God. His expensive suit was torn, his hands were covered in blood, and he was holding a massive, pump-action shotgun.
“Carlo,” Vincenzo said. It wasn’t a shout. It was a death sentence.
Carlo scrambled backward, dropping the knife and holding his hands up in surrender. “Vincenzo! Listen to me! It was Audrey! She orchestrated the whole thing! She let the hit squad in!”
Vincenzo didn’t say a word. He racked the shotgun. The mechanical clack-clack echoed like thunder in the small garage.
“She killed Elena, Vincenzo!” Carlo screamed, desperate, pathetic. “She pushed her!”
“I know what happened to my wife,” Vincenzo said coldly. “Anna told me everything.”
Carlo’s face went slack. He knew it was over. He looked wildly around the garage, his eyes landing on the stack of wooden crates in the corner. He saw a flash of yellow raincoat.
Before Vincenzo could pull the trigger, Carlo dove behind the crates.
He grabbed Millie by the hair, hauling her up and pulling a small backup pistol from his ankle holster. He pressed the barrel to the little girl’s temple.
“Drop the gun, Vincenzo!” Carlo screamed, his voice cracking with panic. “Drop it, or I blow her brains out right now!”
Vincenzo froze. The shotgun wavered. His eyes locked on his daughter’s terrified face.
Open two: How does a father choose between justice for his dead wife and the life of his living daughter?
“Daddy!” Millie cried out.
“It’s okay, principessa,” Vincenzo said softly, his voice instantly softening. He looked at Carlo, his eyes burning with a terrifying, absolute calm. “Let her go, Carlo. I’ll sign over the ports. I’ll sign over the territories. You can have the chair. Just give me my daughter.”
“Drop the gun first!” Carlo demanded, stepping backward toward the open tunnel door.
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Vincenzo slowly lowered the shotgun, bending his knees to place it on the concrete floor.
Cliffhanger: As Vincenzo placed the gun down, Millie reached into the pocket of her yellow raincoat. She pulled out the silver locket Anna had found years ago—the one with Elena’s picture—and jammed the sharp silver clasp directly into Carlo’s eye.
