Chapter 8 - THE BRASS LAMP
CRACK!
The sound of the heavy brass lamp colliding with the side of Michael’s skull echoed like a gunshot in the library.
Michael’s eyes rolled back into his head instantly. The manic grin vanished, replaced by a look of stunned, vacant horror as the sheer force of the blow shattered his equilibrium. The kitchen knife slipped from his fingers, clattering harmlessly to the hardwood floor.
He collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut, hitting the ground with a heavy, unceremonious thud.
I didn't stop. The ten years of grief, the terror of the night, the sheer rage of discovering my mother’s murderer—it all fueled my adrenaline. I stood over him, my chest heaving, raising the heavy brass lamp above my head, entirely prepared to strike him again.
“Anna, stop!” Vincent shouted, rushing forward.
His voice broke my trance. I froze, the lamp trembling in my raised hands. I looked down at Michael. He was out cold, blood pooling slowly from a gash on his temple.
I dropped the lamp. It hit the floor with a dull thud.
I immediately dropped to my knees, wrapping my arms around Dorothy. The elderly widow was shaking violently, tears streaming down her wrinkled face, but she was unharmed.
“I’ve got you, Dorothy,” I whispered fiercely, burying my face in her shoulder. “I’ve got you. You’re safe.”
Vincent kicked Michael’s dropped pistol across the room, out of reach. He knelt down beside his unconscious brother and swiftly secured his hands behind his back using the heavy silk tie he ripped from Michael’s neck.
Once Michael was bound, Vincent stood up. He walked over to where Raymond lay dead on the floor. He didn't shed a tear for his uncle. The betrayal was too deep, the blood too thick.
Vincent bent down and picked up the antique brass safe-deposit key from where it had fallen near Michael’s hand.
He held the heavy key in his palm, staring at it for a long, quiet moment. Sixty million dollars. An empire’s true wealth, hidden in plain sight inside a dented biscuit tin, guarded by an eighty-one-year-old cook who never knew she held the crown jewels.
Vincent walked over to us. He knelt down so he was eye-level with Dorothy.
The terrifying mafia boss, the man who had just orchestrated the downfall of his entire corrupt family in a single night, reached out and gently took Dorothy’s frail, trembling hand.
“My father was a hard man,” Vincent said softly, his voice thick with emotion. “He made terrible mistakes. But in the end, he knew who truly deserved this family’s legacy.”
Vincent carefully placed the brass key back into Dorothy’s hand, folding her fingers over it.
“This is yours, Dorothy,” Vincent said, his eyes filled with profound respect. “The money wasn't a pension. It was an inheritance. My father left the fortune to you, and the other loyal servants, to ensure you were protected from the monsters in this house.”
Dorothy stared at the key, her lower lip trembling. “Mr. Vincent… I don't want sixty million dollars. I just wanted my bus fare and enough to buy groceries.”
Vincent let out a soft, genuine laugh—a sound I had never heard him make before.
“You won't ever have to worry about bus fare again, Dorothy,” he promised.
Suddenly, the heavy footsteps of Vincent’s security detail thundered down the hallway. Four massive men in dark suits burst into the library, their weapons drawn. They stopped dead in their tracks when they saw Raymond’s body and Michael unconscious on the floor.
“Boss,” the lead guard said, holstering his weapon. “The perimeter is secure. The police are en route to the front gates. We received an anonymous tip about gunshots.”
Vincent stood up, his posture straightening back into the untouchable Don.
“Let the police in,” Vincent ordered calmly. “Show them my uncle’s body. Tell them Raymond shot himself after confessing to embezzling from my companies. Tell them Michael tried to stop him and was injured in the scuffle.”
The guard nodded perfectly. “And what about Michael, sir?”
Vincent looked down at his treacherous brother.
“When he wakes up, take him to the warehouse on the docks,” Vincent commanded, his voice cold and devoid of mercy. “He tried to kill a woman under my protection. He is no longer my brother. He is a thief. Deal with him accordingly.”
The guards hauled Michael’s unconscious body off the floor and dragged him out of the room.
Vincent turned back to me. He looked at my black-and-white maid’s uniform, slightly torn and covered in dust, and then at the heavy brass lamp on the floor.
“You saved her life, Anna,” Vincent said quietly.
“I was protecting my family, sir,” I answered, holding Dorothy tighter.
“Your mother would be incredibly proud of the woman you’ve become,” Vincent said, his eyes conveying a depth of gratitude words couldn't express. “Raymond will rot in hell for what he did to her. I swear it.”
The distant wail of police sirens began to echo through the night, approaching the estate gates.
Vincent reached into his pocket and pulled out the tarnished silver rosary. He held it out to me.
“Take this,” Vincent said softly. “It belongs to you.”
I reached out with a trembling hand and took the rosary. I clutched the silver crucifix to my chest, closing my eyes as a wave of overwhelming peace washed over me. For ten years, my mother’s death had been an open, bleeding wound. Tonight, the truth had set her spirit free.
“Mr. Moretti,” I said, opening my eyes. “What happens now?”
Vincent looked around the destroyed library, at the blood on the carpet, the shattered illusions of his family, and finally, at the door leading upstairs, where his seven-year-old son was sleeping.
“Now,” Vincent said, a weary but absolute resolve settling over his face, “we burn this empire down. And we build something better.”
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The sirens grew deafening outside the mansion windows. The nightmare of the Moretti family’s corruption was officially over. The guilty were dead or damned, and the innocent had survived.
But the hardest part wasn't surviving the night. It was figuring out how to live in the morning.
