Chapter 7 - THE WOMAN IN THE COAT
The heavy metal of Vincent’s pistol felt freezing against my palm.
I stared down at Claire. She was lying in a pool of her own blood, her face twisted in a mocking sneer, fully believing I didn't have the stomach to pull the trigger.
For seven years, I had been the perfect mafia wife. Docile. Quiet. Forgiving.
But the woman who had walked into this cabin was dead. She had died the moment her son was threatened.
I raised the gun and aimed it directly at Claire’s head.
“Evelyn, don’t,” my mother pleaded from the doorway, shielding Anthony’s eyes. “If you shoot her now, it’s murder. The police are outside!”
The sirens were deafening now. Tires screeched on the gravel driveway. Men were shouting, heavily armed FBI agents swarming the perimeter of the cabin.
Claire smirked, her bloody teeth bared.
“Listen to mommy,” Claire taunted. “You’re too weak, Evelyn. You always were.”
I didn’t shoot her.
Instead, I lowered the gun, aiming it at the floorboards right next to her hand, and pulled the trigger.
The gunshot deafened the room. The bullet splintered the wood inches from Claire’s fingers.
She screamed in sheer terror, curling into a pathetic ball, covering her head.
“I’m not weak, Claire,” I whispered, stepping over her. “I’m just done playing your game.”
The front door burst open.
A dozen FBI agents flooded the room, assault rifles raised, tactical lights blinding us.
“Drop the weapon! Hands in the air! NOW!”
I slowly placed the pistol on the floor and raised my hands.
“My husband needs a medic!” I yelled over the chaos, pointing to Vincent’s lifeless body. “Please! He’s dying!”
Two agents rushed to Vincent, immediately beginning chest compressions. Another agent secured Claire, ignoring her dramatic screams about her shoulder.
A tall man in a dark suit walked into the cabin, flashing a badge.
Agent Reynolds. The commander Vincent had called.
He looked at my father’s body behind the sofa, then at Claire, and finally at me.
“Mrs. Moretti,” Reynolds said, his voice surprisingly gentle. “Your husband made a deal with us an hour ago. He traded the entire syndicate to ensure you and your son would receive full federal immunity.”
I looked at Vincent. The medics were using a defibrillator, his chest jerking off the floor.
“Is he…” I couldn’t finish the sentence.
Reynolds touched his earpiece, listening for a moment.
“He has a pulse,” Reynolds said softly. “It’s faint. But he’s fighting.”
I collapsed against the wall, burying my face in my hands, sobbing with absolute relief.
Three months later.
The Chicago winter was brutal, the wind howling off the lake, burying the city in two feet of snow.
I stood in front of the massive, floor-to-ceiling windows of a high-rise penthouse in downtown Manhattan. Safe. Thousands of miles away from the blood and betrayal of our past.
The federal immunity had held. My father’s syndicate was dismantled. Dozens of corrupt politicians and mob bosses were sitting in federal prison, all thanks to the ledger hidden in my mother’s diamond necklace.
I hadn’t kept the eight hundred million dollars. I had given it all to the FBI.
Blood money never buys peace.
I heard the soft padding of footsteps behind me.
Anthony ran into the living room, giggling, holding a brand-new toy airplane. He looked healthy, his cheeks rosy, the trauma of the cabin slowly fading from his young mind.
“Look, Mommy!” Anthony cheered, swooping the plane through the air.
I smiled, catching him and pulling him into a tight hug.
“It’s flying so fast,” I whispered, kissing his forehead.
“Can I show Daddy?” he asked, his big brown eyes looking up at me.
I swallowed the lump in my throat.
“Yes, sweetheart. Go show Daddy.”
Anthony ran down the hall toward the master bedroom.
I followed him.
Sitting in a wheelchair by the window, covered in a thick wool blanket, was Vincent.
He was thin, his face scarred and pale, relying on a cane to take even a few steps. The bullet Dominic had fired into his chest had irreparably damaged his lungs. He would never be the terrifying, imposing mafia boss again.
And he didn't care.
Vincent smiled as Anthony climbed onto his lap, showing off the toy plane. The genuine, unburdened joy in Vincent’s eyes was something I hadn’t seen in a decade.
He had lost his empire, his health, and his power.
But he had won his family back.
The doorbell of the penthouse rang.
I walked out to the foyer and opened the door.
My mother stood there, smiling warmly. She was wearing a beautiful, classic wool winter coat, her gray hair styled elegantly.
Women's classic wool winter coat. Nguồn: Paul Popper/Popperfoto / Popperfoto via Getty Images
For the first time in my life, she looked truly happy. She didn’t have to hide anymore.
“Mom,” I smiled, hugging her tightly. “You’re early.”
“I couldn’t wait,” she laughed, pulling back. “I brought cannolis from that bakery Anthony loves.”
She stepped inside, taking off her heavy coat and hanging it in the closet.
“How is Vincent today?” she asked quietly.
“He’s good,” I said. “The doctors say his breathing is improving. He’s taking it one day at a time.”
My mother nodded, patting my arm. She walked toward the living room to greet Anthony.
I stayed in the foyer for a moment, enjoying the profound, beautiful silence of our new life.
I reached into the closet to adjust my mother’s coat so it wouldn't wrinkle.
As my hand brushed against the heavy wool pocket, I felt something hard and metallic hidden deep inside the lining.
I frowned.
I reached into the pocket and pulled out a heavy, antique gold charm bracelet.
Antique gold charm bracelet. Nguồn: Bobbi Joy / Getty Images
My heart stopped.
I recognized the bracelet instantly.
It belonged to Claire. She had worn it every single day.
Why was it in my mother’s coat?
I turned the heavy gold charms over in my hand. One of the charms—a small, square locket—was unclasped.
I pried it open.
Inside the locket was a tiny, flashing red micro-transmitter.
A GPS tracker.
May you like
And written on a tiny piece of paper folded behind the tracker was a message in my mother’s handwriting.
He wasn't your real father.
