Chapter 7 - THE BROTHER'S RETURN
“Marcus.”
Anthony’s voice was a low, lethal growl. He stepped smoothly in front of Noah and me, shielding us entirely with his body.
Marcus chuckled, stepping into the study. Two armed men flanked him, locking the heavy doors behind them.
“I told Victoria she was getting sloppy,” Marcus said, twirling the silencer of his weapon. “Getting herself arrested over a diamond ring. How petty. I suppose if you want a job done right, you have to do it yourself.”
I pulled Noah tighter against me, pressing us both back into the deep leather sofa. Noah was trembling violently.
“You sent her,” Anthony said, keeping his hands visible but his posture ready to strike. “Eight years ago. You orchestrated the surrogacy. The accident.”
“I orchestrated an inheritance,” Marcus corrected lightly. “You took the family seat, Anthony. You took the power, the money, the respect. I was left with nothing but an exile to Sicily. But I knew you had a weakness.”
Marcus pointed the gun toward Noah.
“Family.”
Aunt Rosa stood near the fireplace, her grip tightening on her silver cane. “You are a disgrace to this bloodline, Marcus. Isabella was a saint.”
“Isabella was a nuisance,” Marcus sneered. “She wouldn’t die quietly. Even when Victoria tampered with the brakes, your precious wife managed to steer the car into an embankment instead of oncoming traffic. She survived for three hours in the wreckage. Long enough to hide that damn letter.”
Anthony’s fists clenched so hard his knuckles turned white.
“What do you want, Marcus? Victoria is in police custody. She’ll talk. Your plan is over.”
“My plan is adapting,” Marcus smiled coldly. He reached into his coat and pulled out a thick legal document. He tossed it onto the coffee table at Anthony’s feet.
“Sign it.”
Anthony glanced down. “Transfer of power.”
“Transfer of everything,” Marcus corrected. “The businesses, the offshore accounts, the real estate. You sign it, and you walk away. You, the old bat, the maid, and the bastard child.”
Noah flinched at the word.
Anthony didn’t look at the paper. He looked at his brother.
“And if I don’t?”
Marcus raised the gun, aiming it directly at my chest. “Then I shoot the girl. Then Rosa. Then the boy. And I forge your signature after you’re dead.”
The room fell deadly silent.
I looked at the barrel of the gun. I thought of my father, lying in his hospital bed. I thought of the house in upstate New York I hadn’t even seen yet.
But then I felt Noah’s small hand grip my apron strings.
I wasn’t going to let this man hurt him.
Anthony slowly reached into his jacket.
“Careful, brother,” Marcus warned, pulling the hammer back.
“I’m just getting a pen,” Anthony said smoothly. He pulled a sleek, silver fountain pen from his pocket.
He knelt by the coffee table, uncapping the pen.
“Smart choice,” Marcus sneered, taking a step closer to watch him sign.
Anthony pressed the pen to the paper.
But he didn’t write.
In one explosive motion, Anthony drove the solid metal pen upward, burying it deep into the thigh of the guard standing nearest to Marcus.
The man screamed, dropping his weapon.
Simultaneously, Aunt Rosa swung her silver cane with surprising speed, sweeping Marcus’s legs out from under him.
The gun went off with a quiet thwip, the bullet burying itself into the leather of the sofa, inches from my shoulder.
“Get down!” Anthony roared.
I grabbed Noah by the collar and dragged him behind the heavy mahogany desk.
Gunfire erupted in the study. Anthony had snatched the dropped weapon and fired twice, dropping the second guard instantly.
Marcus scrambled backward, clutching his bleeding face where the cane had struck him. He raised his gun toward Anthony.
But Anthony was faster.
He didn’t shoot Marcus in the chest. He shot him in the right shoulder, the force spinning his brother around and dropping him to his knees.
The room plunged into sudden, ringing silence.
Anthony walked slowly over to Marcus, kicking the gun out of his reach.
He pressed the barrel of his weapon against Marcus’s forehead.
“You came into my home,” Anthony whispered, his voice vibrating with rage. “You threatened my son. You threatened the people I protect.”
Marcus spat blood onto the rug, looking up with a defiant, broken smile.
“Kill me, Anthony. Do it. Because if you don’t, I’ll never stop coming for him.”
Anthony stared at him for a long, agonizing second.
Then, he lowered the gun.
“No,” Anthony said. “Death is too easy for you.”
He looked at the bleeding guard on the floor. “Call the police. Tell them Marcus DeLuca is here, and he just confessed to the murder of Isabella DeLuca.”
Marcus laughed weakly. “They’ll never hold me in a cell. I have judges in my pocket.”
“Not anymore,” a voice said from the doorway.
We all turned.
Standing there was Arthur. Victoria’s father.
He looked exhausted, his suit rumpled from police questioning. He was holding a small, black ledger.
“I told the police everything, Marcus,” Arthur said quietly. “I gave them the financial records. Every judge you bought. Every bribe you paid. They’re freezing your assets right now.”
Marcus’s smile finally vanished.
Arthur looked at Anthony. “I couldn’t save my daughter from him. But I can stop him from hurting anyone else.”
Sirens wailed in the distance, growing louder.
The nightmare was finally over.
Anthony turned back to the desk. He dropped the gun on the floor and dropped to his knees, pulling Noah into a crushing embrace.
“You’re safe,” Anthony whispered, kissing the top of Noah’s head. “I’ve got you.”
Noah hugged him back, sobbing quietly.
Anthony looked up at me.
“Thank you,” he mouthed.
I smiled, wiping my tears.
But as the police rushed into the room to arrest Marcus, Noah pulled back from his father.
He looked down at the floor behind the desk.
“Dad?” Noah pointed to a small, wooden panel on the side of the desk that had been splintered by a stray bullet.
May you like
Inside the broken wood, something was glittering.
It was a small, tightly rolled canvas painting.
