Chapter 4 - THE GHOST IN THE ROOM
The knocking wasn't loud, but it sounded like a hammer against Emily's raw nerves.
"Don't answer it," Helen whispered frantically, trying to sit up, her breath coming in ragged wheezes. "Emmy, please."
But Emily was done running from shadows. The fear had burned out in the diner, leaving behind a cold, hard anger. She gripped the silver lighter in her fist, marched to the front door, and threw it open.
Vincent Moretti stood in the dim hallway.
He was alone this time. No heavy-handed guards. No dark overcoat. He wore a simple gray sweater, and without the armor of his wealth, he suddenly looked every bit of his sixty-one years. Tired. Broken.
"You can't buy my forgiveness," Emily snapped, holding up the lighter. "And you certainly can't buy my mother."
Vincent didn't look at her. His amber eyes were fixed over her shoulder, staring straight into the dimly lit living room at Helen.
"Hello, Nellie," Vincent said softly.
Emily froze. No one had called her mother Nellie since she was a child.
"Vincent," Helen breathed, her voice cracking with a mixture of profound sorrow and deep, hidden guilt. "You shouldn't have come here."
Emily stepped squarely into the doorway, blocking Vincent’s view of her mother. "What is going on? How do you know her? Why do you have my father's lighter?"
Vincent finally looked at Emily. The ruthless predator of the city was completely gone, replaced by a man drowning in old regrets.
"Because your father didn't run away, Emily," Vincent said, the words heavy as lead. "He stayed behind to save my life. And I have spent twenty years looking for the family he asked me to protect."
The world seemed to tilt on its axis. Everything Emily knew about her father—the resentment, the abandonment, the bitter tears her mother had cried—was a lie.
"Let him in, Emmy," Helen whispered from the couch. "It's time."
Vincent stepped into the cramped apartment, looking entirely out of place among the thrift-store furniture and stacks of medical bills. He sat down heavily on a wooden dining chair, leaning his elbows on his knees.
"Thomas was my driver," Vincent began, his voice rough. "Before I built the empire. Before I became the monster everyone thinks I am. We got ambushed by a rival crew on the docks. Thomas took two bullets meant for me. He bled out in the back seat, holding that lighter."
Emily felt the room spinning. "Why didn't you tell us? Why let us think he abandoned us?"
"Because the men who killed him were looking for leverage," Vincent said grimly. "If they knew he had a wife and a little girl... they would have come for you next. Your mother and I agreed. It was the only way to keep you safe."
Emily turned slowly to her mother. Helen was weeping silently, her face buried in her frail hands.
"You lied to me," Emily whispered, the betrayal stinging sharper than any physical blow. "My whole life."
"I kept you alive!" Helen sobbed, looking up.
Before Emily could answer, Vincent’s cell phone buzzed. He pulled it out, glancing at the screen. His face drained of all color.
"We have a problem," Vincent said, standing up sharply, the predator instantly returning to his eyes. "My underboss, Silas. He’s been tracking my movements. He knows I paid your medical bills."
"So what?" Emily demanded.
Vincent drew a heavy, matte-black pistol from his waistband, clicking the safety off.
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"So, Silas has wanted to take my territory for five years," Vincent said, moving toward the window and peering through the blinds. "And he just found out that the invincible Vincent Moretti has a massive, glaring weakness."
Down in the street, three black SUVs were rolling silently to a stop in front of the apartment building.
