Chapter 7 - THE RED LEDGER
Vincent didn’t draw a weapon. He didn’t need to. He simply gestured to the two massive thugs flanking him, who instantly leveled suppressed pistols at Clara’s chest.
Clara forced herself to tremble, leaning into the role she had played for eleven months. The terrified, helpless maid.
“Please,” Clara whispered, clutching her broken wrist. “I didn’t go to the police. I just wanted my coat. I just wanted to leave.”
“You’re lying,” Vincent said lazily, checking the silver pocket watch again before snapping it shut. “You went to Leo. But that’s fine. Leo is currently locked out of his own castle, running around the city looking for a brat my men have already taken care of.”
Clara let out a choked sob. It wasn’t entirely acting; the thought of what Vincent had intended for Lily sent a spike of pure ice through her veins.
“Bring her inside,” Vincent ordered his men, turning back to the office doors. “I need someone to carry the heavy bags anyway.”
One of the thugs grabbed Clara roughly by the shoulder, shoving her forward into Leo’s private office.
The room had been ransacked. The antique paintings were pulled off the walls, and the massive steel vault hidden behind the mahogany bookcase was wide open.
Vincent walked to the desk, tossing a thick, blood-red leather ledger into his duffel bag.
“Do you know what this is, Clara?” Vincent asked, patting the bag. “This is freedom. This ledger contains the routing numbers for every offshore account Leo’s grandfather ever opened. The waterfront deeds. The union payoffs. It’s the keys to the kingdom.”
“He’ll kill you,” Clara said, her voice shaking just enough to sound authentic.
Vincent laughed. A sharp, arrogant sound. “Leo? Leo’s a dinosaur. He thinks loyalty and silence are enough to rule a city. He doesn’t understand that money is the only thing that commands respect. Tomorrow morning, Leo Castillion will be arrested for smuggling narcotics through his own shipping lanes. And I’ll be on a private jet to Geneva.”
He walked toward her, his smug smile faltering slightly as he looked into her eyes. He expected to see total submission.
Instead, Clara held his gaze.
“You’re sweating, Mr. Marlowe,” Clara said quietly.
Vincent stopped. “Excuse me?”
“Your forehead,” Clara pointed with her chin. “You’re sweating. And your hands are shaking. You keep checking that pocket watch because you’re terrified your hacker didn’t give you enough time before the silent alarms tripped.”
Vincent’s face flushed dark red with sudden, violent fury.
He crossed the room in two strides, grabbing Clara by the throat with his left hand, shoving her brutally against the edge of the open vault door.
Clara gasped, fighting for air, but she didn’t look away.
“You insolent little—” Vincent hissed, drawing a silver pistol from his shoulder holster and pressing the cold barrel directly against her temple.
Clank.
A heavy, metallic sound echoed through the room.
Vincent froze.
He looked down. He had dropped a small silver key from his vest pocket in his rage. It hit the hardwood floor and slid a few inches.
“Pick it up,” Vincent ordered Clara, loosening his grip slightly.
Clara dropped to her knees, gasping for breath. She reached for the key with her right hand.
But as her fingers brushed the metal, the heavy oak doors of the office quietly clicked shut behind Vincent’s thugs.
“You dropped something else, Vincent,” a voice said from the shadows.
Vincent whirled around, his gun raised.
Leo stepped out from behind the heavy velvet drapes near the balcony. He wasn’t holding a gun. He was holding the printed shipping manifest Clara had found in the laundry room.
The distraction had worked. Leo had climbed the balcony trellis while Clara held Vincent’s attention.
Vincent’s thugs instantly leveled their weapons at Leo.
“Shoot him!” Vincent screamed, backing away and grabbing Clara by the hair, hauling her up as a human shield. “Shoot him right now!”
The two thugs hesitated.
They looked at Leo. The man who had paid their salaries, protected their families, and ruled the city with iron discipline for a decade.
Leo didn’t flinch. He looked directly at the two men.
“You pull those triggers,” Leo said, his voice terrifyingly calm, “and you seal your own graves. Vincent isn’t taking you to Geneva. He’s taking the money. You’re staying here to take the fall for the smuggling.”
Vincent tightened his grip on Clara’s hair, digging the gun barrel harder into her skull.
“He’s lying!” Vincent shrieked, his polished facade completely shattered. “Kill him!”
Leo took a slow step forward. “Am I? Check the duffel bag. Look at the airline tickets in the front pocket. Tell me how many there are.”
One of the thugs lowered his gun slightly. He glanced at the bag on the desk.
“Don’t you dare look!” Vincent roared.
But the thug reached over, unzipping the small pocket. He pulled out a crisp, white envelope. He opened it.
May you like
There was only one ticket.
The room fell deathly silent.
