Chapter 8 - A TRAIN TICKET TO A PAST LIFE
The gunshot deafened me.
Vincent stumbled back, gripping his left shoulder. Blood instantly bloomed through his dark suit jacket.
“Vincent!” I screamed.
Mrs. Russo looked at the smoking barrel of the gun, her face freezing in genuine shock. She had meant to shoot me, but he had thrown his shoulder into the line of fire.
“My boy,” she whispered, her hands finally starting to tremble. The gun clattered down the wooden stairs.
Vincent groaned, leaning heavily against the banister. “Don't call me that.”
At that moment, the front doors burst open. Camille rushed in, followed by Vincent’s uncle and six armed guards.
They took the stairs in seconds, pinning Mrs. Russo against the wall. She didn't even fight. She just stared at Vincent’s bleeding shoulder.
“Get him a medic,” his uncle barked.
I pressed my hands against Vincent’s wound. He winced but placed his large hand over mine. “I’m okay, Tessa. It’s a through-and-through.”
The guards dragged Mrs. Russo down the stairs. As she passed me, the frail facade was entirely gone. She looked old, yes, but her eyes were venomous.
“You think you’ve won?” she hissed at me. “You think you get to walk away and play happy family with your brother? You have my blood on your hands now.”
Vincent’s uncle stepped in front of her. “Take her to the compound. Lock her in the basement suite. No phone. No visitors.”
As they pulled her out the door, the house finally fell silent.
Camille brought a first-aid kit from the kitchen. I helped Vincent out of his jacket while she packed the wound with gauze.
“Where is Leo?” Vincent asked, wincing as the alcohol hit his skin.
“Asleep in the car with the driver,” Camille said, her voice softer than I had ever heard it. She looked at me. “Tessa. I am so sorry for how I treated you. I had to make her believe I was awful. If she thought I was a threat to her power, she would have killed Leo.”
“I understand,” I said quietly. And I did. She was a mother protecting her cub.
Vincent’s uncle walked into the living room, wiping his hands on a handkerchief.
“The board has been notified,” he said. “I’m taking over as interim head of the family until you recover, Vincent.”
Vincent looked up, his dark eyes sharp despite the pain.
“No,” Vincent said. “You’re not.”
His uncle paused. “Vincent, you are injured. Your mother is dethroned. The family needs stability.”
Vincent reached into his good pocket with his right hand. He pulled out the old train ticket the uncle had shown us earlier.
“Margaret Morgan’s train ticket to leave town,” Vincent read. “Dated October 12, 1998.”
He looked dead at his uncle.
“My father died on October 10th. If my mother killed Margaret out of jealousy over my father... why was Margaret buying a train ticket two days after he was already dead?”
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The uncle’s face went completely blank.
“Answer One, Open Two,” Vincent whispered. “My mother didn't kill my father, Uncle. You did.”
