Chapter 8 - The Reckoning
Downstairs, the battle had reached its bloody climax.
Vincent had moved down the secondary service stairwell, flanking Lorenzo’s men from behind. Working with terrifying, lethal precision, he eliminated three hitmen in the dining corridor before stepping directly into the grand foyer.
Dominic, bleeding from a shoulder wound, rose from behind the overturned table, firing his sidearm into Greco’s chest, sending the giant hitman crashing through the glass patio doors.
Lorenzo Vane was left standing alone near the shattered entrance, his revolver empty, his face pale as he backed toward his dark SUV parked outside.
Vincent walked out from the shadows of the hallway, his face covered in gunsmoke soot and stone dust, his Kimber .45 held steady in his hand.
“Vincent...” Lorenzo gasped, raising his hands in surrender, his knees trembling. “It was Moretti! He forced me into this! He threatened my family!”
“You lied to me, Lorenzo,” Vincent said, his voice as cold as the winter sea outside. “You brought weapons into my home. You targeted my son.”
“Vincent, please! We were brothers for twenty years!” Lorenzo wept, falling to his knees on the bloody marble floor. “Give me a chance! I’ll leave the country! You’ll never see me again!”
Vincent stopped three feet from his former underboss.
“You said I was weak because I loved my boy,” Vincent whispered. “You were wrong, Lorenzo. Loving him is the only thing that makes me dangerous.”
BANG!
A single gunshot echoed through the high foyer.
Lorenzo collapsed onto his side, silent and motionless.
Vincent lowered his weapon. He didn't look at the body. He turned on his heel and sprinted up the spiral staircase, taking three steps at a time, his heart in his throat.
He reached the second-floor corridor, stepping over the fallen hitmen, and burst into Matteo’s bedroom.
The room was destroyed. Plaster was torn from the walls, furniture was overturned, and two unconscious hitmen lay on the floor near the closet.
Standing near the window, holding Matteo’s small hand in hers, was Clara.
She was covered in dust and blood, her hair loose around her shoulders, her clothes torn. But she was standing tall, guarding the boy with her life.
Vincent stopped at the doorway, dropping his weapon onto the floor.
“Lullaby,” Vincent whispered, his voice trembling violently.
Clara let out a long, ragged breath, her shoulders sagging as the adrenaline finally drained from her body.
Matteo pushed his wheelchair forward, rolling across the ruined floor toward his father.
Vincent dropped to his knees, wrapping his large arms around his son, pulling the boy tightly against his chest. Matteo buried his face in his father’s shoulder, his arms locking around Vincent’s neck with immense strength.
“I’ve got you, baby,” Vincent sobbed, tears cutting clean tracks through the soot on his face. “I’ve got you. You’re safe.”
“Clara helped me, Dad,” Matteo cried into his shoulder. “We fought them.”
Vincent looked up over his son’s shoulder at Clara, who was leaning against the window frame, watching them with tears in her eyes.
Vincent reached out his hand toward her.
May you like
Clara hesitated for a second, then walked over and took his hand. Vincent pulled her down into the embrace, wrapping his arm around her, holding both his son and the woman who had saved them both.
Outside, the storm began to break, the dark clouds parting to reveal the first pale light of dawn over the Atlantic Ocean.
