Chapter 7 - The Silver Lighter
The heavy silver lighter struck Anthony’s cheekbone with a sickening crack.
He stumbled backward, dropping the metal pipe and howling in pain. The rosary detonator slipped from his grasp, clattering onto the concrete floor just inches from a pool of spilled gasoline.
Rachel, the young waitress, stood in the doorway of the warehouse, her arm still raised from throwing the lighter.
“That belonged to my mother,” Rachel yelled, her voice trembling but fierce. “You stole her life. You don’t get to steal ours.”
Margaret didn't waste a single second. She dove across the concrete, her fingers closing around the silver rosary just before Anthony could reach it. She scrambled backward, clutching the detonator tightly against her chest.
“Grace, get the boy out!” Margaret roared.
Grace scooped Leo into her arms and ran toward the exit, flanked by Helen and Rachel.
Anthony staggered to his feet, blood pouring from the cut on his cheek. He looked at Margaret, his chest heaving with exertion and terminal illness. He looked pathetic. A dying king in a ruined castle.
“You have the detonator,” Anthony spat, clutching his side. “But you don't have the master ledger, Margaret. The police are already on their way. When they find the documents I planted in the office upstairs, you’ll spend the rest of your life in a federal supermax.”
Margaret slowly stood up, her pistol in one hand, the rosary in the other.
“You always underestimated me, Anthony,” Margaret said coldly.
Vanessa stepped out from the shadows of the warehouse office, holding a thick, leather-bound book. She tossed it onto the floor at Anthony’s feet.
“She didn't underestimate you, Father,” Vanessa said, her voice dripping with venom. “I did. But I know how to pick a lock.”
Anthony stared at the ledger, his final trump card gone. He looked at Vanessa, the daughter he had groomed and manipulated.
“You betray your own blood?” Anthony hissed.
“You taught me that blood means nothing,” Vanessa replied smoothly. She raised her own pistol. “Goodbye, Father.”
Before Vanessa could pull the trigger, the wail of police sirens pierced the night air. Dozens of blue and red lights flashed across the corrugated metal walls of the warehouse. The FBI had arrived.
Anthony seized the distraction. He lunged toward the back of the warehouse, throwing himself through a heavy steel blast door that led to his private vault.
The door slammed shut, the electronic locks engaging with a heavy, final thud.
Vanessa ran to the door, pulling the handle. “It’s sealed from the inside. It’s a panic room.”
Margaret walked over to the door. She looked at the heavy steel, then down at the silver rosary in her hand.
“Marco,” Margaret said into her radio. “Pull all our men back. Surrender your weapons to the feds. Nobody resists.”
“Mrs. Moretti?” Marco asked, confused.
“Do it,” Margaret ordered.
She turned to Vanessa. “Go. Be with Grace and the boy. You are under my protection now.”
Vanessa nodded, a silent look of immense gratitude passing between them, before sprinting out of the warehouse.
Margaret stood alone in front of the vault.
She keyed the intercom on the wall.
“Anthony,” Margaret said quietly.
Static crackled. “You’re going to prison, Margaret,” Anthony’s voice echoed through the speaker. “I’m safe in here. I have food, water, and air for a month. I’ll negotiate my own surrender.”
“You misunderstood the game, Anthony,” Margaret said.
She looked down at the silver lighter Rachel had thrown. It had skidded near the pool of gasoline.
Margaret picked it up. She flicked the lid open. A steady, bright flame illuminated her face.
“What are you doing?” Anthony asked, panic finally creeping into his voice.
“I’m not a Mafia Queen anymore,” Margaret whispered to the steel door. “I’m just a mother.”
She tossed the burning silver lighter directly into the pool of gasoline.
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The fuel ignited instantly. A wall of fire swept across the warehouse floor, engulfing the wooden crates and racing directly toward the explosive barrels Anthony had rigged earlier.
Margaret turned and walked out of the warehouse, her black coat billowing in the heat, never looking back as she pressed the heavy silver cross on the rosary.
