Chapter 7 - THE SMOKING REVOLVER
Arthur Whitmore looked nothing like the distinguished businessman who had been sipping champagne ten minutes earlier. His face was twisted in rage, his eyes locked onto the small piece of paper in Matteo’s hand.
“I told Vanessa you were too smart to fall for the shipping yard trick,” Arthur sneered, stepping into the tiny bedroom. “Give me the note, Matteo.”
Matteo didn't move. He subtly shifted his body, completely blocking Sophie and Rosie from Arthur’s line of sight.
“You killed my wife,” Matteo said, his voice terrifyingly calm.
“She found out about our laundering operation,” Arthur replied coldly. “She was going to the feds. I had no choice. Just like I have no choice now.”
He aimed the gun directly at Matteo’s chest.
Sophie felt Rosie whimpering against her side. Her heart hammered against her ribs. She looked around the tiny room. There were no weapons. No escape route. Just the open window behind them, letting in the freezing Chicago wind.
“Daddy,” Rosie cried quietly.
Arthur’s eyes darted toward the child. “It’s a shame about the girl. She’s a sweet thing. But no loose ends.”
Matteo’s muscles coiled. “If you touch my daughter, I will tear you apart with my bare hands.”
“You’ll be dead before you cross the room,” Arthur laughed.
He pulled the hammer back.
In that split second, Sophie didn't think. She remembered her mother, two years ago, stepping in front of a speeding car to save a stranger.
Sophie grabbed the heavy, wooden shoebox from the floor and hurled it directly at Arthur’s face.
The box shattered against Arthur’s temple just as the gun went off.
The bullet tore into the ceiling, raining plaster down on the bed.
Before Arthur could recover, Matteo lunged.
He hit Arthur like a freight train, slamming the older man through the bedroom doorway and out into the second-floor hallway. The gun clattered across the hardwood floor, spinning out of reach.
Sophie covered Rosie’s body with her own, listening to the brutal, bone-crunching sounds of the fight in the hall.
A moment later, it stopped.
Sophie slowly looked up.
Matteo stood in the hallway, chest heaving, his knuckles bruised. Arthur was unconscious on the floor, pinned beneath two of Matteo’s heavily armed guards who had just rushed up the stairs.
Matteo walked back into the room. He was bleeding from a cut above his eye, but he didn't care.
He dropped to his knees, pulling Rosie and Sophie into a desperate, crushing embrace.
“Are you hurt?” Matteo asked, his hands checking his daughter, then hovering over Sophie’s shoulders. “Sophie, did he hit you?”
“No,” Sophie breathed, crying into his coat. “We’re okay. We’re okay.”
Matteo closed his eyes, resting his forehead against Sophie’s. “You saved my daughter’s life. Again.”
Downstairs, the wail of police sirens grew louder, converging on the mansion.
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Mrs. Parker appeared in the doorway, stepping carefully over Arthur’s unconscious body. In her hands, she held a heavy velvet box.
“Sir,” Mrs. Parker said gently. “The police are taking Miss Whitmore into custody. But before she left, she told me to give this to Sophie. She said it was the real reason she wanted her fired.”
