Chapter 5 - The Faded Photograph
“My name is Detective Thomas Dawson. And I’m the man you blinded with battery acid twenty-four years ago to stop me from solving your sister-in-law’s murder.”
The words ripped through the dining room like a shockwave.
I stared at my father, my mind entirely failing to process what I was hearing. A detective? My father had always told me he was a construction worker who lost his sight in an industrial accident before I was born. I had spent my entire adult life working as a maid to pay for the medical debt of an accident that was actually an attempted murder.
Roman lowered his gun slightly, staring at the frail man in the doorway.
“You were the lead investigator on my mother’s case?” Roman asked.
“I was,” my father said. He reached his free hand out, and I immediately grabbed it, guiding him fully into the room. His hands were shaking, but his voice was iron-clad. “I was getting too close, Roman. I found the financial discrepancies. I found the connection between Dante and Marcus Vale. And the night before I was going to arrest him, Dante ambushed me in an alley.”
Dante let out a cruel, condescending laugh. “This is a touching family reunion, really. But the testimony of a blind ex-cop means absolutely nothing without proof. And you have no proof, Thomas. You never did.”
“No,” my father agreed softly. “I didn’t. Because you stole my case files that night.”
My father let go of my hand and reached into his jacket pocket.
“But you didn’t search my wallet,” my father said.
He pulled out a small, severely faded polaroid photograph. The edges were crumpled and stained with decades of wear, but the image on the glossy paper was still visible.
He held it out in the air.
Roman’s security chief stepped forward, took the photograph, and handed it to Roman.
I looked over Roman’s shoulder.
The photograph showed two men sitting at a dimly lit table inside a diner. One was a much younger Marcus Vale.
The other, handing Marcus a thick manila envelope, was Dante DeLuca.
The timestamp in the corner of the polaroid read: October 13, 2002.
Two days before the murder.
“That is the payoff,” my father said, pointing blindly toward the room. “That is Dante paying the Vale Syndicate to orchestrate the home invasion and cover up the poisoning.”
Roman’s eyes burned holes into the photograph. The physical proof of his uncle’s ultimate betrayal was finally in his hands.
“You sold her to them,” Roman whispered, his voice cracking with a terrifying devastation. “You sold my mother to the wolves just to take control of the family finances.”
Dante’s smug demeanor finally evaporated. He looked at the photograph, then at the ring of heavily armed guards circling him. The exits were blocked. The truth was out.
But Dante was a cornered animal, and cornered animals were the most dangerous.
With blinding speed, Dante lunged toward Serena.
He didn’t grab the crying woman. Instead, he ripped a small, heavy object from her neck—a thick, braided gold chain she had been wearing under her dress.
Serena screamed as the chain broke, leaving a red mark on her skin.
Dante held up the heavy gold pendant attached to the chain. It wasn’t jewelry.
It was a solid gold key.
“Do you know what this is, Roman?” Dante panted, backing up against the massive glass windows that overlooked the mansion’s sprawling gardens.
Roman raised his gun again. “It’s the vault key. Marcus gave it to Serena to access the accounts after she married me.”
“Exactly,” Dante sneered. “The master key to the subterranean vault beneath this estate. Half a billion dollars in untraceable bearer bonds and gold bullion. Marcus wanted it, but I’m taking it.”
Dante pulled a small, black remote control from his pocket. He pressed his thumb over the single red button in the center.
“I wasn’t bluffing about your son, Roman,” Dante said, his voice entirely devoid of humanity. “Leo is locked in a soundproof shipping container down at the Brooklyn docks. This button detonates the C4 wired to the doors. You shoot me, my thumb slips, and your bloodline ends tonight.”
Serena dropped to her knees, screaming in pure agony. “No! Dante, please, he’s just a boy!”
Roman’s hands shook. The legendary mob boss, a man who had never hesitated to pull a trigger, was entirely paralyzed by the love for a child he had never met.
“Drop the gun, Roman,” Dante ordered. “Tell your men to stand down, give me the access codes to the vault, and let me walk out of here. Or I press the button.”
Roman looked at the gold key in Dante’s hand. Then he looked at the remote.
“Don’t do it, Roman,” Peter Nardi rasped from the floor. The dying hitman was clutching his chest, the cancer and the stress taking their toll. “He’ll kill the kid anyway. He can’t leave witnesses.”
Roman slowly lowered his weapon. “Let the boy go, Dante. Take the money. I don’t care about the empire. Just give me my son.”
Dante smiled—a cold, victorious smirk.
“Very touching,” Dante mocked. “But I need insurance to make sure you don’t blow my helicopter out of the sky before I reach international waters.”
Dante’s eyes darted around the room. He looked at Serena, broken on the floor. He looked at Sofia, old and blind.
Then his eyes landed on me.
Before I could react, Dante crossed the distance, grabbed me by the hair, and yanked me hard against his chest. He pressed the barrel of a hidden derringer pistol directly against my temple.
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“Claire!” my father screamed, blindly reaching out into the air.
“I’m taking the maid,” Dante declared, dragging me backward toward the door. “When I land safely, I’ll tell you where the shipping container is. And maybe… I’ll let her live, too.”
