THE ENVELOPE ON THE KITCHEN FLOOR

David froze, his eyes widening in shock. A small blossom of red appeared on the center of his chest.

He didn't say a word. He just collapsed forward onto the cold stone floor of the wine cellar, dead before he hit the ground.

Standing in the hallway behind him, holding a smoking gun, was Victor.

Victor stepped over David’s body with absolute indifference.

“You can never trust the hired help,” Victor sighed, walking into the cellar.

He raised his gun, aiming it squarely at Isabella.

“Give me the boy, Mother,” Victor commanded, his voice devoid of any human emotion. “It’s 11:45 PM. In fifteen minutes, Julian’s trust matures. If the boy is dead before midnight, the money reverts to my control.”

Isabella didn't move. She shielded Leo with her body, staring her eldest son down with absolute contempt.

“You will rot in hell for this, Victor,” she spat.

“Probably,” Victor smirked. “But I’ll be incredibly wealthy while I do.”

I tightened my grip on the heavy iron candelabra. I was three feet away from him. If I swung hard enough, I might distract him long enough for Isabella to run with Leo.

I tensed my muscles, preparing to sacrifice myself.

Suddenly, a voice echoed from the dark stairwell behind Victor.

“You’re not getting the money, Victor.”

Victor spun around.

Roman stood in the doorway, covered in blood, leaning heavily against the stone archway. He held a gun, but his arm was shaking violently from blood loss.

“Roman,” Victor laughed, though he kept his gun aimed at Roman’s chest. “You’re bleeding out. You can't even hold the weapon steady. It’s over.”

“No,” Roman rasped, his gray eyes burning with a fierce, absolute determination. “It’s just beginning.”

Roman reached into his pocket with his free hand. He pulled out a small, rectangular piece of paper and tossed it onto the dusty floor between them.

“What is that?” Victor demanded.

“Proof,” Roman breathed. “I had Marcus rip your office safe apart while you were busy hunting a five-year-old.”

I looked at the piece of paper on the floor. It was a vintage Amtrak train ticket, dated five years ago.

“That’s the ticket Julian bought to leave the city,” Roman said, his voice echoing in the damp cellar. “The police said he was mugged in an alley. But you kept the ticket as a trophy. You killed him on the platform before he could escape.”

Victor’s smirk faded. He looked at the ticket, genuinely rattled for the first time.

“He was weak!” Victor roared, justifying his betrayal. “He was going to give up his share of the territory to run away with a waitress! He was a disgrace to this family!”

“He was the best of us,” Isabella cried from the corner.

Victor turned his gun back toward Leo. “It doesn't matter. The evidence dies with all of you tonight.”

Victor pulled the trigger.

Roman didn't shoot. He threw himself forward, crossing the distance in a fraction of a second.

The gunshot was deafening.

Roman took the bullet in his shoulder, spinning violently and crashing into the wine racks. Hundreds of glass bottles shattered, raining red wine over the stone floor like blood.

Victor stumbled backward, raising his gun to finish Roman off.

It was my only chance.

I swung the heavy iron candelabra with everything I had left. It connected with the side of Victor’s knee.

A sickening snap echoed through the cellar.

Victor screamed in agony, his leg buckling. He collapsed onto the shattered glass, dropping the gun.

I dove for the weapon, sliding across the wet floor, and grabbed the cold metal handle.

I rolled onto my back and aimed the gun directly at Victor’s chest. My hands were shaking, but my finger was firm on the trigger.

“Don't move,” I screamed.

Victor lay on the floor, bleeding, surrounded by broken glass. He looked up at me, a waitress from Chicago, holding his life in her hands.

He started to laugh.

“You think you won?” Victor coughed, spitting blood onto the floor.

He reached into his camel-hair coat.