Chapter 5 - THE POISON IN THE PILLS
The dusty grocery store felt like a tomb.
Marco slowly lowered his father to the floor, resting Frank’s head against his folded coat. Then, Marco picked up one of the white pills.
His hand wasn’t shaking anymore. His knuckles were white. The sheer, terrifying magnitude of his rage seemed to suck all the oxygen out of the room.
“She poisoned him,” Marco whispered.
It wasn’t a question. It was a realization that fundamentally altered the man kneeling on the floor.
Frank looked up at his son, his pale blue eyes wide with confusion. “Marco? I’m not sick?”
“No, Pop,” Marco said, his voice cracking as he smoothed his father’s white hair. “You’re not sick. She was drugging you. To make you look incompetent. To make me think you were dying.”
Tears spilled from the old man’s eyes. Not tears of fear, but of profound, overwhelming relief.
“I thought I was losing my mind, son,” Frank wept. “I thought I was becoming a burden.”
“You were never a burden,” Marco said fiercely. He stood up, turning to the heavy wooden counter. He slammed his fist into the wood so hard the antique cash register rattled.
Luca stepped forward, putting a cautious hand on his brother’s shoulder. “Marco. We have to go. It’s 11:30. Matteo and Emma’s mother are at the terminal.”
Marco took a deep, shuddering breath, locking his rage away behind a mask of cold mafia discipline.
“We go,” Marco said. “But we don’t play by her rules.”
He turned to his head of security. “Take a team to the terminal. Set up snipers. But keep them completely out of sight. Do not engage unless I give the order.”
“Sir, what about your father?” the guard asked.
“I’m coming,” Frank said, gripping the edge of a shelf to pull himself up.
Without the drugs in his system, he was still weak, but the terrifying brain fog was already beginning to lift. The quiet, dignified grocer who had raised three boys on his own was returning.
“Pop, it’s too dangerous,” Luca pleaded.
“That woman murdered my wife,” Frank said, his voice steadying. “She stole my motherless grandson. And she made my son believe I was a fool. I am not sitting in a car.”
Marco looked at his father, saw the iron will in his eyes, and nodded.
We drove to the Staten Island Ferry Terminal in complete silence. The midnight wind whipping off the harbor was brutally cold.
Terminal 4 was closed for the night, a cavernous, echoing hall of glass and steel overlooking the black water.
As we walked through the main doors, my heart hammered against my ribs.
Standing in the center of the empty waiting area was Elizabeth Whitmore. She wore a pristine white trench coat, looking entirely unbothered. Beside her stood Christina, clutching her designer handbag, looking nervous.
And flanking them were three massive, armed men.
One of them was Victor. My landlord. The man who had driven the car that killed Rosa Bellini.
He had one massive hand clamped onto the shoulder of my mother, who was sitting in a wheelchair, looking terrified.
And in Christina’s arms was a little boy. Matteo. He was crying quietly, clinging to Christina’s coat.
“Mom!” I yelled, rushing forward.
Victor raised a pistol, pointing it directly at my mother’s head. “Hold it right there, girly.”
I froze, tears streaming down my face.
“Ah, the whole family is here,” Elizabeth smiled, stepping forward. “And you brought the help. How touching.”
Marco stepped in front of me, shielding me with his body. “Let them go, Elizabeth.”
“The bracelet and the photograph first, Marco,” Elizabeth demanded.
Marco reached into his jacket. He pulled out the emerald bracelet and the faded photograph of Victor.
He held them up.
Christina saw the bracelet and her face drained of color. She looked at Frank, realizing her secret was out.
“You’re a monster, Christina,” Frank said softly. “You poisoned my food. You smiled in my face while you stole my life.”
Christina stepped back, looking at Marco. “Darling, please, my mother made me—”
“Shut up,” Marco said, his voice echoing in the empty terminal. He didn’t even look at her. He kept his eyes on Elizabeth.
“Take the items,” Marco said, tossing the bracelet and the photograph onto the polished floor between them.
Elizabeth smiled triumphantly. She gestured to Victor.
Victor released my mother’s wheelchair and shoved her roughly toward me. I caught the chair, falling to my knees and burying my face in my mother’s lap.
“I’m okay, Emma. I’m okay,” my mom whispered, crying.
Christina shoved little Matteo forward. Luca dropped to his knees and caught his son in a desperate, crushing embrace.
“I got you, buddy. Daddy’s here,” Luca sobbed.
Elizabeth picked up the photograph and the bracelet. She slipped them into her pocket.
“Well,” Elizabeth smiled. “This was entirely too easy.”
She looked at Victor and the other two armed men.
“Kill them all,” Elizabeth ordered. “Make it look like a mafia shootout.”
I screamed, covering my mother’s body with my own. Marco and Luca lunged forward to shield Frank and Matteo.
But the gunshot didn't come.
Instead, a heavy silence fell over the terminal.
Elizabeth frowned. She turned around.
Victor and the two armed men had not raised their guns at Marco.
They had turned around and aimed their weapons directly at Elizabeth and Christina.
Elizabeth’s face went completely slack. “Victor, what are you doing? I pay you!”
Victor laughed, a cold, gravelly sound. He reached into his leather jacket.
He pulled out a silver rosary.
The beads clinked softly in the quiet terminal.
“You pay me, Elizabeth,” Victor sneered. “But my soul belongs to the man you framed thirty years ago.”
From the shadows of the boarding ramp, a figure slowly walked into the light.
An older man in a tailored black suit. He had Marco’s eyes, but his hair was completely silver.
May you like
Marco stopped breathing.
“Hello, Marco,” Uncle Antonio said softly.
