Chapter 7 - The Family Reunion in Blood
The acrid smell of gunpowder hung heavy in the air, mixing with the stale cedar of the luxury suite. Michael stepped further into the room, his eyes locked on his father, ignoring Lorenzo entirely for a fraction of a second.
“You weren’t supposed to come up here yet, Vincent,” Michael said, his voice hard, lacking any trace of the playful mockery he had used downstairs in the restaurant. “The plan was to let the neurotoxin run its course in the alcove, secure the signature on the probate documents, and move the assets before the federal task force caught wind of the transition.”
Vincent turned to face his eldest son, his expression tightening into a mask of pure authority. “Plans change, Michael. Your brother is harder to kill than a cockroach. He brought an old ghost back from the dead.” Vincent nodded slightly toward Elena, who was still clutching the parchment paper against the desk.
Lorenzo stood swaying on his feet, his finger still curled around the trigger of his Sig Sauer, though his arms were shaking so violently he could barely keep the barrel steady. “It was never about the business, was it?” Lorenzo spat out, blood speckling his lower lip. “You two didn't fake a death or clean up a mess. You built a cartel inside my own corporation while I played the loyal son.”
Michael let out a dry, humorless laugh. He walked toward the center of the room, stopping halfway between his father and Lorenzo.
“Loyal son?” Michael’s voice rose, cracking with twelve years of bitter resentment. “Do you have any idea what it’s like to live in the shadow of a golden boy who gets handed the keys to the kingdom while you’re sent away to rot in a safehouse in Montreal just because you asked a few uncomfortable questions about where the family money came from?”
“Dad said you died in a car crash!” Lorenzo shouted, a spasm of pain gripping his chest as his knees buckled slightly.
“Dad said a lot of things!” Michael yelled back, stepping closer, raising his pistol slightly. “He told you I died, and he told me you were happy to take my place. For twelve years, I watched you live my life from behind a frosted glass window. I watched you marry a woman who only wanted my old seat at the table!”
At the mention of her name, the door behind Michael swung open further, and Isabella stepped into the suite. Her crimson silk dress was unwrinkled, her posture immaculate, but her eyes were fixed entirely on Michael—not with love, not with fear, but with cold, bitter disappointment.
“You promised no one else would get hurt tonight, Michael,” Isabella said, her voice cutting cleanly through the tension in the room. “You said Lorenzo would just be incapacitated long enough to sign the transfer papers. You didn't say anything about an execution.”
Michael hesitated for a fraction of a second, his grip on his pistol loosening just enough for Vincent to notice.
“Isabella,” Vincent warned sharply, his eyes narrowing. “Don’t let sentimentality ruin twelve years of planning. He was never going to give you the controlling shares of the holding company. He was going to liquidate everything and hand it over to federal informants.”
Isabella looked at Lorenzo, who was sliding slowly down the side of the mahogany desk, his breath coming in shallow, rattling gasps. The poison had nearly reached his heart.
“Is that true, Lorenzo?” Isabella asked softly, taking a step toward him. “Were you going to turn everything over?”
Lorenzo looked up through a haze of pain, his eyes meeting hers for the first time without the shield of suspicion or betrayal.
“I was going to protect you,” Lorenzo whispered, his voice barely a breath. “From all of it.”
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Isabella stopped. Her face crumpled, the hard, calculated mask finally shattering completely, revealing the terrified young woman beneath.
Before anyone could move, Elena lunged forward from the desk, grabbing the heavy silver pocket watch that Vincent had left sitting on the edge of the wood and hurling it directly into the wall fixture, plunging the entire suite into sudden, absolute darkness.
