Chapter 7 - The Betrayal Unveiled
“Eric,” I gasped, stepping out from behind Lorenzo.
My husband was limping heavily, his leg hastily wrapped in blood-soaked bandages from where Matteo had shot him the night before. His designer suit was ruined, covered in dirt and dried blood, and his face was twisted in a desperate, manic sneer.
He didn't look like the polished businessman I had married. He looked like a cornered rat.
“Drop the gun, Lorenzo, and kick the book over,” Eric demanded, raising the shotgun tighter against his shoulder. “I won't ask twice.”
Lorenzo didn't drop his weapon. He kept it aimed steadily at Eric’s center mass.
“You’re a long way from home, Eric,” Lorenzo said, his voice terrifyingly calm, devoid of any panic. “How did you find this place?”
“Silas isn't stupid,” Eric spat, grimacing in pain as he shifted his weight. “He knew the ring was a fake the moment he touched it last night. He figured your mother left a clue in the vault. He’s been paying a teller at the First National Bank for years. The teller tipped us off that you accessed the box an hour ago and left empty-handed.”
Eric laughed, a harsh, grating sound.
“Silas knows your family history, DeMarco. He knew exactly what ‘where the wolves sleep’ meant. He sent me ahead to intercept you while he gathers his men.”
Answer one. Silas hadn't fallen for the diversion at the main house. He was coming here.
Open two. If Silas was on his way, why was Eric here alone, and what was his endgame?
“If Silas is coming, why are you out here playing cowboy, Eric?” Lorenzo asked, his eyes narrowing, calculating the angles.
“Because Silas promised me five million dollars for the ledger,” Eric said, his eyes wild with greed. “If I hand it to him directly, I get the payout and a ticket out of this city before the Commission tears it apart.”
Eric turned the barrel of the shotgun slightly, aiming it directly at my chest.
“I’m sorry, Becky,” Eric said, not sounding sorry at all. “You were a good wife. But you were always just a stepping stone. Kick the book over, Lorenzo, or I blow her in half.”
My heart hammered against my ribs. The man I had spent twelve years with was going to murder me for money.
Lorenzo didn't hesitate. He knew the devastating spread of a shotgun at this close range. He couldn't risk it.
Slowly, Lorenzo lowered his handgun and set it on the wet grass. He then tossed the heavy leather ledger onto the ground midway between us.
“Good boy,” Eric sneered. He began to limp forward, keeping the shotgun leveled at us.
“You’re going to die for nothing, Eric,” Lorenzo said softly. “Silas isn't going to pay you. He’s going to put a bullet in your head the moment you hand him that book. You’re a loose end.”
“Shut up!” Eric yelled, clearly rattled by the truth of the statement.
Eric reached the ledger. He awkwardly bent down, keeping one hand on the shotgun, and grabbed the leather book.
He grinned triumphantly, standing back up.
But in that split second of distraction, as Eric’s eyes drifted to the ledger, Lorenzo moved.
He didn't reach for his gun on the ground.
He surged forward with terrifying, explosive speed, closing the ten-foot gap in a heartbeat.
Before Eric could pull the trigger, Lorenzo slammed his hand upward, knocking the barrel of the shotgun toward the sky.
The gun went off with a deafening roar, the buckshot shredding the branches of a nearby oak tree.
Lorenzo delivered a brutal, punishing right hook directly to Eric’s jaw.
The sickening crack of bone echoed in the courtyard.
Eric dropped like a stone, completely unconscious before he hit the ground. The shotgun clattered harmlessly onto the grass.
Lorenzo stood over my ex-husband, his chest heaving, rubbing his knuckles.
He didn't look at Eric again. He bent down, picked up his handgun, and snatched the ledger back from the dirt.
He turned to me.
“Are you hurt?” he asked, closing the distance between us in three strides.
“No,” I breathed, the adrenaline making my hands shake violently. “You saved my life. Again.”
“I told you I would protect you,” Lorenzo said, his voice fierce, pulling me briefly against his chest. I could feel the rapid, heavy thumping of his heart.
He pulled back, his eyes snapping toward the dirt road leading into the estate.
“We have to go. Right now,” Lorenzo ordered. “If Eric is here, Silas is five minutes behind him.”
We sprinted back to the Audi.
Lorenzo threw the car into reverse, spinning the tires in the mud, and tore out of the estate gates.
We didn't go back toward the city. Lorenzo turned the car onto a narrow, unmarked logging road that led deeper into the mountains.
“Where are we going?” I asked, gripping the dashboard as the car bounced violently over the ruts.
“The Commission’s northern safehouse,” Lorenzo said, his eyes locked on the treacherous road. “It’s a neutral territory compound. The heads of the Five Families use it for private summits. If we can reach it, Silas can't touch us without starting a full-scale war with every syndicate in the country.”
We drove in terrified silence for ten minutes, climbing higher into the dense, foggy mountain pass.
Suddenly, my phone buzzed in my pocket.
I pulled it out. The screen was cracked from being thrown to the floor of the restaurant the night before, but it was still functional.
It was a text message. From an unknown number.
I opened it.
My blood ran completely cold.
It was a picture.
It was a photo of my father. He was sitting in a chair, bleeding from a cut on his forehead, looking absolutely terrified.
Standing behind him, holding a gun to my father’s head, was a man I didn't recognize.
“Lorenzo,” I gasped, the air leaving my lungs completely.
“What is it?” Lorenzo asked, glancing over.
I held the phone up so he could see it.
Lorenzo slammed on the brakes. The Audi skidded to a halt on the dirt road, kicking up a cloud of dust.
He stared at the screen, his face turning an ashen gray.
A reversal.
Lorenzo had promised me my father was safe behind the impenetrable walls of his estate.
But Silas Romano hadn't sent an army to break down the gates.
He had a rat on the inside.
My phone buzzed again. Another text message.
Turn the car around, DeMarco. Bring the book to the abandoned steel mill on Route 9. You have thirty minutes, or the baker loses his head.
I burst into tears, covering my mouth with both hands.
“My dad,” I sobbed. “They have my dad.”
Lorenzo didn't speak for a long time. He stared out the windshield at the dense forest, the weight of the impossible choice crushing him.
He could drive to the Commission, hand over the ledger, and secure his empire forever.
Or he could turn around, walk into a guaranteed death trap, and try to save the life of a baker he barely knew.
Lorenzo slowly reached out, took my phone, and turned it off.
May you like
He threw the car into reverse, spun the wheel, and headed back down the mountain.
He was choosing my father.
