Chapter 7 - THE SACRIFICE
The crack of the gunshot was deafening in the small hallway.
Lorenzo’s body jerked backward. He hit the base of the stairs, clutching his side, but his arms remained locked securely around the pink bundle. He had shielded the baby completely.
“Lorenzo!” Claire screamed, dropping the shotgun and stumbling down the stairs despite her agonizing pain.
I didn't hesitate this time. I fired my revolver. The bullet struck the wall inches from Bianca’s face, sending plaster exploding into her eyes. She shrieked, dropping her weapon, and before she could recover, my driver burst through the door, tackling her to the ground and securing her arms in zip-ties.
I rushed to my grandson.
Lorenzo was gasping for air, blood seeping through his white dress shirt. But he wasn't looking at his wound. He was looking at the baby, checking her tiny, sleeping face.
“She’s safe,” Lorenzo whispered, coughing. “Claire... the baby is safe.”
Claire fell to her knees beside him, tears streaming down her face. She pressed her hands against his bleeding side. “Why did you do that? You fool, why did you do that?”
Lorenzo reached up with a trembling, bloodstained hand and gently touched her cheek.
“Because you were right,” he rasped. “A mistake is forgetting an anniversary. I made a choice tonight... and it was the wrong one. I just wanted... to make the right choice, just once.”
From his pocket, a small object tumbled out onto the wooden floor. It was a child’s drawing. It was a crayon sketch of Lorenzo, Claire, and a little baby, drawn by Claire weeks ago when they were picking out nursery colors. On the back, Lorenzo had written: Everything I do, I do for them.
Claire picked up the drawing, a sob tearing from her throat.
Sirens wailed in the distance. My driver had called the police.
“You’re going to be okay,” Claire wept, pressing her forehead against his. “Do you hear me? You don't get to leave us now.”
Lorenzo’s eyes fluttered shut, his breathing growing shallow. “I’m sorry, Grandpa,” he whispered.
I knelt beside him, resting my hand on his chest. “You are a Romano, Lorenzo. Today, you finally proved it.”
As the paramedics rushed through the door, Bianca let out a bitter, venomous laugh from the floor.
“You think this is over?” she spat. “My grandfather’s loyalists are everywhere. You’ll never be safe!”
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I looked down at her, a profound calm washing over me.
“You’re wrong, Bianca,” I said quietly. “Because your grandfather didn't have loyalists. He had mercenaries. And mercenaries only fight when they’re paid.”
