Chapter 5 - THE DETONATOR AND THE DECOY
The sharp, metallic click of the detonator echoed in the quiet library.
Clara squeezed her eyes shut, throwing her arms over her head, bracing for the deafening explosion that would tear the mansion’s foundation apart and bury them all in rubble.
One second passed. Then two. Then five.
Nothing happened. No explosion. No fire. Only the relentless drumming of the rain against the windows.
Silas’s bloody smile faltered. He stared at the small black device in his hand, panic finally bleeding into his arrogant eyes. He pressed the red button again. And again. Frantically mashing it with his bloodstained thumb.
“Why isn't it working?!” Silas roared, coughing violently as the gunshot wound in his shoulder bled out onto the Persian rug.
Vincent didn't lower his gun. He walked slowly toward his underboss, the lethal calm returning to his face.
“Because Rosalind is a coward, Silas,” Vincent said, his voice dropping to a terrifying, mocking whisper. “You trusted a woman who left my wife to burn in a car crash. Did you really think she was going to stick around and wait for you to blow up the house?”
Silas froze, the realization dawning on him.
“I intercepted Rosalind in the driveway ten minutes ago,” Vincent explained coldly. “She was trying to steal my armored SUV. She traded your life for her own in about thirty seconds. She gave me the real detonator. What you’re holding is a garage door opener she painted black.”
Silas stared at the useless plastic in his hand. He had been played. Betrayed by his own conspirator.
Vincent reached down, grabbed Silas by the collar of his ruined suit, and hauled the massive, bleeding man up so they were face-to-face.
“Now,” Vincent snarled, pressing the barrel of the Colt .45 directly beneath Silas’s jaw. “You are going to tell me exactly what you and Rosalind were planning. Why did you pay her fifty thousand dollars to send Sophie away?”
Silas gasped in pain, his shattered knee buckling beneath him, entirely supported by Vincent’s brutal grip.
“Because... because she was the heir,” Silas choked out, blood spilling from his lips. “You updated your will last month, Vincent. You left the entire syndicate, the offshore accounts, everything in a blind trust for Sophie if you died. Rosalind’s unborn kid gets nothing until they turn eighteen.”
Clara, still gasping for air against the bookshelf, listened in horror.
“Rosalind didn't want to wait eighteen years,” Silas confessed, his eyes wide with terror as he stared down the barrel of the gun. “She needed Sophie out of the picture permanently. St. Jude’s isn't just a school. It’s owned by the Moretti family. I brokered the deal. We were going to trade your daughter to your worst enemies in exchange for peace, blow you up in this house, and I would take over the Chicago territory as the grieving underboss protecting your pregnant widow.”
The sheer, calculated evil of the plot was staggering. They hadn't just planned a murder; they had planned the complete annihilation of Vincent’s bloodline.
Vincent’s finger tightened on the trigger. His eyes were entirely black, utterly devoid of mercy.
“Mr. Hale, wait!” Clara screamed, scrambling to her feet.
Vincent didn't look at her. “He betrayed me, Clara. He tried to sell my daughter to monsters. He dies here.”
“If you shoot him, the gunshot will echo outside!” Clara pleaded, grabbing Vincent’s arm. “Silas didn't come alone! He’s your underboss; his loyal men are guarding the perimeter right now! If they hear you execute him, they will storm this house, and we won't make it to Sophie in time!”
Vincent paused. The mention of Sophie’s name was the only thing capable of piercing through his murderous rage.
Clara was right. The mansion was surrounded by Silas’s handpicked men. Vincent was isolated in his own home.
Vincent slowly lowered the gun, though he didn't release his grip on Silas’s collar.
“You’re right,” Vincent breathed, his jaw locking. He looked at Silas with absolute disgust. “You get to live for five more minutes, Silas.”
Vincent brutally struck Silas across the temple with the heavy steel grip of the Colt. Silas’s eyes rolled back in his head, and he collapsed to the floor, completely unconscious.
Vincent turned to Clara, his expression shifting from a mafia boss back to a terrified father. “Where is she? Where is Sophie?”
“I told her to run to the kitchen,” Clara said rapidly, her adrenaline surging. “There’s a panic room behind the walk-in pantry. Your father built it. It’s reinforced steel.”
“We need to get to her before Silas’s men realize he’s not answering his radio,” Vincent said, checking the magazine of his weapon.
They ran out of the library, sprinting down the dark, shadowed hallways of the massive estate. The house was eerily silent.
They reached the swinging doors of the industrial kitchen.
Vincent pushed them open, leading with his gun.
The kitchen was empty. The stainless steel prep tables gleamed in the moonlight pouring through the skylight.
“Sophie!” Clara called out in a harsh whisper. “Baby, it’s Clara! It’s safe!”
Silence.
Clara ran to the walk-in pantry, pulling the heavy door open. She pushed past the rows of canned goods and dry supplies, reaching the back wall. She pressed her hand against the hidden seam of the panic room door.
It was wide open. And the small, reinforced room was completely empty.
“She’s not here,” Clara panicked, tears of sheer terror welling in her eyes. “Mr. Hale, she’s gone!”
Vincent rushed into the pantry, his face draining of color. He looked around frantically.
Lying on the floor, just outside the panic room door, was Sophie’s stuffed rabbit.
Vincent dropped to his knees, picking up the toy. His hands were shaking violently. “They took her. Silas’s men must have intercepted her in the hallway.”
Clara stared at the stuffed rabbit in Vincent’s hands.
“Wait,” Clara whispered, her eyes widening.
She rushed forward and snatched the rabbit from Vincent’s hands. She frantically felt along the plush back of the toy, finding the hidden, zippered pocket.
She pulled the zipper down.
Inside was the bank transfer receipt she had hidden earlier. But tucked beneath the receipt was something else. A small, crumpled piece of thick stationary paper.
Clara pulled it out and unfolded it under the dim pantry light.
May you like
It was a note, written in hasty, elegant cursive.
Vincent. If you are reading this, it means Silas failed, and you survived. I have the girl. Bring the original trust fund documents to the old boathouse on the lake. Come alone, or I will drown her. — Rosalind.
