Chapter 8 - THE FAMILY HEIRLOOM
The smoke from the breached courtyard drifted through the grand hallway, settling like a heavy fog over the ruined mansion.
Vincent froze. He dropped the detonator, his hands instinctively rising into the air as he stared at the silver revolver pressed against his seven-year-old son’s temple.
“Daddy!” Leo cried out, tears streaming down his small, terrified face.
“It’s okay, buddy,” Vincent said, his voice remarkably steady, though I could see the muscles in his jaw ticking with a violent, suppressed rage. “Don't move. Look at me, Leo. Just look at me.”
Richard backed slowly toward the heavy kitchen doors, dragging the boy with him.
“Pick up the bags, Vincent,” Richard barked, the silver revolver trembling in his sweaty hand. “I’m not dying in a federal prison, and I’m not dying by the syndicate’s hand. I’m taking the money, and I’m taking the jet Vanessa chartered.”
Vanessa, still zip-tied on the floor of the dining room, let out a hysterical laugh.
“You idiot!” she spat at Richard. “They’ll hunt you down! You can't run from the Russians!”
“I can if I have sixty million dollars!” Richard screamed back, his panic rising. He looked back at Vincent. “The bags! Now!”
Vincent slowly knelt down. He gripped the handles of the two heavy leather duffel bags. He lifted them, his eyes never leaving his son.
“Let the boy go, Richard,” Vincent reasoned quietly, taking a slow step forward. “Take the money. Walk out the back door. I won't stop you. Just let Leo go.”
“I let him go when I’m on the plane!” Richard yelled, taking another step backward.
He was moving closer to the dining room. Closer to where Florence and I were huddled on the floor.
I looked at the silver revolver. I looked at the little boy crying for his father.
I thought about my mother, bleeding out on the cold pavement fourteen months ago because she tried to protect this family. She had died so the truth could live. I wasn't going to let Richard take another innocent life.
I slowly let go of Florence.
“Anna, no,” Florence whispered, grabbing my wrist.
“Stay down,” I whispered back, pulling my arm free.
I stayed on my hands and knees, crawling silently through the shadows of the long mahogany dining table. The heavy tablecloth draped over the sides, shielding me from Richard’s view as he backed into the room.
“Keep moving, Vincent!” Richard commanded, stepping backward until his heels hit the edge of the Persian rug in the dining room. “Throw the bags onto the patio! Tell your men to back off!”
Vincent reached the doorway. He looked past Richard. For a fraction of a second, his dark eyes locked onto mine underneath the table.
He understood immediately.
“You’re making a mistake, Uncle,” Vincent said loudly, stepping forward to draw Richard’s attention entirely onto him. “You can't fly out of O'Hare. I already told Marco to call the feds. The airport is locked down.”
“You’re lying!” Richard shouted, momentarily turning his gun toward Vincent.
It was the only opening I would get.
I exploded out from under the table.
I didn't reach for the gun. I didn't try to punch him. I was a maid; I knew the weight of every object in this room.
I grabbed the heavy, solid-silver soup tureen that had been abandoned on the sideboard. With a scream that tore from the bottom of my lungs, I swung it with every ounce of strength my body possessed.
CLANG!
The heavy silver crashed brutally into the side of Richard’s skull.
The impact sounded like a cracked bell. Richard’s eyes rolled back instantly. The silver revolver slipped from his fingers, clattering harmlessly to the floor. He collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut, hitting the rug in a heap.
I dropped the dented silver tureen and immediately lunged for Leo, pulling the terrified little boy into my arms and shielding him with my body.
“I’ve got you, sweetheart,” I gasped, holding him tight. “I’ve got you.”
Vincent was across the room in a blur. He didn't even look at his unconscious uncle. He dropped to his knees beside me, wrapping his massive arms around both me and his son, crushing us in a desperate, shaking embrace.
“Are you hurt?” Vincent demanded, his hands frantically checking Leo for injuries. “Did he hurt you?”
“I’m okay, Daddy,” Leo sobbed, burying his face in his father’s chest.
Vincent let out a shuddering breath, kissing the top of his son’s head. Then, he looked up at me. The gratitude in his eyes was so profound it made my chest ache.
“You saved my son’s life, Anna,” Vincent whispered. “You saved my family.”
“My mother loved this family,” I said, tears finally spilling down my cheeks. “I couldn't let them destroy what she died to protect.”
The wail of police sirens began to echo in the distance, growing louder as the authorities finally responded to the explosion at the gates.
Marco and the security guards rushed into the dining room, dragging a groggy, bleeding Richard up from the floor and zip-tying his hands next to Vanessa.
“The police are two minutes out, Boss,” Marco reported. “What do we tell them?”
Vincent stood up, lifting Leo effortlessly into his arms. He looked around the destroyed dining room, at the shattered crystal, the bullet holes, and the two traitors bound on the floor.
Then, he looked at the two heavy duffel bags filled with sixty million dollars in stolen foundation funds.
“We tell them the truth, Marco,” Vincent said, his voice ringing with a calm, absolute clarity that hadn't been there for years. “We hand over Richard and Vanessa for the murders of my parents and Maria Brooks. We hand over the financial ledgers. We let the feds dismantle the illegal operations.”
Marco’s eyes widened in shock. “Boss, you’ll go to prison.”
“No, he won't,” a frail, commanding voice spoke up.
We all turned.
Florence Miller stood up from her chair. The eighty-two-year-old widow smoothed the front of her modest dress and walked over to Vincent.
“I’ve known the Chief of Police and the Federal Prosecutor since they were rookies walking a beat,” Florence said, her voice steady and proud. “They respected Eleanor. And they respect the widows of this city. I will tell them that Vincent Moretti surrendered his empire tonight to save an innocent child and restore the stolen funds. I will testify that he is the man his mother raised him to be.”
Vincent looked at the elderly widow, a profound respect settling over his features.
“Thank you, Florence,” Vincent said softly.
May you like
He turned back to the duffel bags on the floor.
“But the money doesn't go to the feds,” Vincent declared, looking directly at me. “The money goes exactly where my mother intended it to go.”
