Chapter 5 - THE POCKET WATCH THAT TURNED BACK TIME
I stared at the antique pocket watch, the ticking of its gears shockingly loud against the chaos of the sirens.
To my son, Vincent.
"Vincent's father is dead," I insisted, my voice trembling. "He died in a car bombing in 1996. Vincent buried him."
"Vincent buried a closed casket," my mother corrected, her eyes scanning the dark tree line beyond the estate gates. "Just like he buried me."
A chill violently shook my spine.
"Wait," Anthony said, his grip tightening on my arm. "You're saying my grandfather is alive? And he's the one Dominic was stealing the money for?"
Before my mother could answer, a black, unmarked SUV tore through the manicured hedges of our front lawn, bypassing the police barricade completely.
The vehicle slammed on its brakes just inches from where we stood.
The doors flew open. Four men in tactical gear—but no FBI badges—stepped out, aiming suppressed automatic weapons directly at us.
"Get in the car," the lead man barked.
I looked frantically for the FBI agents who had just raided our home. They were standing on the mansion steps, watching us. Not one of them drew a weapon. Not one of them moved to help.
My mother’s face went pale. "The handler took the bribe. They sold us out."
"Mom!" Anthony yelled as one of the men grabbed his shoulder, shoving him toward the SUV.
I raised the pistol I had taken from Dominic, my hands shaking uncontrollably. "Let my son go!"
The lead man didn't even flinch. He walked right up to the barrel of my gun.
"Shoot me, Mrs. Moretti, and my men will empty their magazines into your boy. Drop it."
I looked at Anthony’s terrified eyes.
I dropped the gun. It clattered against the driveway.
They shoved us into the back of the SUV. The doors slammed shut, pitching us into darkness as the vehicle sped away from the only home I had known for seventeen years.
Anthony squeezed my hand so hard it hurt. My mother sat stoically beside us, her jaw set.
"Where are they taking us?" I whispered to her.
"To the man who owns the watch," she replied quietly.
We drove for over an hour. The city lights faded into the bleak, industrial outskirts of Chicago, where abandoned factories loomed like concrete skeletons.
The SUV finally stopped inside a massive, rusted shipping warehouse.
The guards pulled us out.
The air smelled of motor oil and rotting wood. In the center of the vast, empty space sat a single folding table illuminated by a harsh overhead light.
Sitting at the table was a man in a sharp, tailored suit. His hair was completely white, slicked back, and a deep, jagged scar ran down the side of his neck.
He was sipping espresso.
When he looked up, my breath caught in my throat.
He had Vincent's eyes. Cold, dark, and hollow.
"Martha," the old man said, his voice a gravelly rasp. "You aged well for a dead woman."
My mother stood tall. "Carlo."
Carlo Moretti. Vincent's father. The legendary boss who supposedly died in the nineties.
"You're alive," I breathed, unable to comprehend the ghost sitting in front of me.
Carlo chuckled dryly. "I had to be dead, Evelyn. The heat was too much back then. I left the city to Vincent, let him be the face of the family while I pulled the strings from the shadows."
"Dominic wasn't stealing from Vincent," Anthony realized aloud. "He was collecting your cut."
Carlo smiled at his grandson. "Smart boy. Just like your father. Yes, Dominic was my eyes and ears. Vincent got too soft. He started spending too much on mansions and charity galas. He forgot who built this empire."
"So you ordered Dominic to kill my mother," I said, anger finally burning through my fear.
"Your mother is a rat," Carlo spat, his polite demeanor vanishing. "She found the transfers. She was going to ruin everything. Dominic failed to put her in the ground, a mistake I will rectify tonight."
He nodded to his guards.
Two men stepped forward, grabbing my mother by her winter coat.
"No!" I screamed, lunging for her, but a guard struck me across the face. I fell hard onto the concrete floor, tasting blood.
"Mom!" Anthony cried, struggling against the men holding him back.
"Evelyn, stay down!" my mother yelled, her voice breaking. "Take care of Anthony!"
Carlo stood up, pulling a silver revolver from his jacket. He walked toward my mother.
"You cost me a lot of money today, Martha," Carlo said, cocking the hammer of the gun.
I squeezed my eyes shut, bracing for the gunshot. I couldn't watch her die again.
But the gunshot didn't come from Carlo's weapon.
A deafening blast echoed through the warehouse.
Carlo screamed, dropping his revolver as blood exploded from his right shoulder. He stumbled backward, clutching the wound.
The guards spun around, raising their rifles into the darkness.
Footsteps echoed from the shadows. Slow, deliberate footsteps.
A figure stepped into the harsh overhead light, holding a smoking shotgun.
It was Vincent.
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He was still wearing his bloodied tuxedo, his face battered, but his eyes were filled with a terrifying, absolute rage.
"You touch my wife," Vincent said, pumping the shotgun with a lethal click, "and I will finish the job the car bomb started thirty years ago, Father."
