Chapter 6 - The Traitor’s Price
Paul froze in the doorway, his hand hovering over his own holster. He had been Vincent’s right-hand man for eight years. He had driven Helen to her medical appointments. He had eaten at their dinner table. “Boss,” Paul said smoothly, his hands raising in a gesture of surrender. “What are you doing?” “My father’s journal,” Vincent said, his voice echoing in the grand room. “He listed the men who helped orchestrate his fake death. Only three people knew about the safe house in Ohio. Me, my mother, and you.” Paul didn’t flinch. “That doesn’t prove I extorted Caroline.” “No,” I spoke up, surprising myself. Everyone turned to me. I stepped away from the wheelchair, my pulse pounding in my ears. “But it proves you had the watch,” I said, looking directly at Paul. “When Caroline said she bought the watch at a pawn shop, she was lying to cover for her extortionist. The extortionist gave her the watch to give to Mark, to make Mark look like the mastermind if they were caught.” Caroline let out a soft sob of confirmation. “He mailed it to me. With the rosary.” Paul’s smooth mask finally cracked. A cruel, arrogant smile spread across his face. “Ten years,” Paul said, dropping the respectful tone. “I served this family for ten years while your coward of a father hid in Ohio. I built this empire with you, Vincent. And what was my reward? You decided to marry a socialite and go legitimate. You were going to cut the rest of us out.” Vincent kept his gun perfectly steady. “So you recruited Caroline. A desperate, bankrupt woman.” “She was perfect,” Paul sneered. “A pretty face to distract you while I drained the accounts. Taking your mother was just leverage. Insurance to make sure you didn’t retaliate when I took over the family.” “You’re a dead man, Paul,” Vincent said softly. “Am I?” Paul lowered his hands slowly. He opened his suit jacket. Strapped to his chest was a thick vest woven with wires and blocks of plastic explosives. In his right hand, hidden until now, was a small black detonator. The relatives in the room screamed. Vincent’s aunt fainted. “Lower the gun, Vincent,” Paul said calmly. “Or I drop my thumb, and this entire house—along with your mother, your fiancée, and that little girl in the kitchen—turns to ash.” Vincent’s hand trembled, but he didn’t lower the weapon. “You won’t kill yourself,” Vincent said. “I don’t plan to,” Paul smiled. “Mark is going to drive me to the private airfield. Caroline is going to wire the rest of the foundation’s money to my accounts. And you are going to let us walk out the front door.” Paul took a step backward toward the entryway. He was in total control. But he had made one massive miscalculation. He had forgotten about the caregiver. While everyone’s eyes were locked on the bomb strapped to Paul’s chest, I quietly reached into the pocket of Helen’s winter coat hanging over the back of her wheelchair. Helen carried a small, heavy brass oxygen tank for emergencies. It weighed almost ten pounds. As Paul backed toward the hallway, passing within arm's reach of the wheelchair, I gripped the brass cylinder with both hands. I didn’t think. I just swung. The heavy metal cracked violently against the side of Paul’s head. He crumpled to the floor instantly, the detonator slipping from his fingers.
