Chapter 4 - THE VAULT OF SECRETS AND THE GUNFIRE
The heavy thud of boots echoing down the grand staircase downstairs made the floorboards beneath my feet vibrate.
“Frank,” I whispered, panic rising in my throat like bile. “They’re inside the house.”
Frank didn't flinch. He knelt beside the steel safe hidden beneath the mattress, his movements sharp and deliberate. The frail, confused old man I had served breakfast to for two weeks was entirely gone. In his place was the former underboss of the Marino syndicate.
“Lock the door, Julia,” Frank ordered, his voice steady.
“It is locked! I put a chair in front of it!”
“That won't hold them,” he grunted, spinning the dial on the safe. “Get against the wall. Out of the line of fire.”
I scrambled backward, pressing myself into the corner of the room near the heavy oak wardrobe, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs.
Frank finished the combination. The heavy steel door clicked open.
He reached inside and pulled out a thick, sealed manila envelope. He tucked it into the inner pocket of his cardigan, then grabbed the sawed-off shotgun from the bed.
“Listen to me very carefully, Julia,” Frank said, turning to face me. The distant sound of doors being kicked open down the hall grew louder. “If they breach this room, I will hold them off. You take this envelope. You climb out the window onto the trellis, and you run into the woods. Do not look back.”
“I’m not leaving you!” I cried, tears springing to my eyes. “I can't leave you here to die!”
“You will do exactly as I say!” Frank barked, a command born of decades of authority. His eyes softened for a fraction of a second. “You’re a good girl, Julia. You gave me my dignity back today. Now, let me give you your life. Take the envelope.”
He pulled the manila envelope from his pocket and held it out to me.
I reached for it, my hands shaking violently.
Before my fingers could touch the paper, a deafening explosion shattered the silence of the second floor.
The heavy oak door of Frank’s bedroom violently burst inward, the wood splintering into a thousand pieces as a breaching charge blew the lock completely off. The heavy armchair I had placed in front of the door was thrown across the room like a toy.
Thick, gray smoke poured into the bedroom.
Frank didn't hesitate. He raised the shotgun and fired blindly into the smoke.
The roar of the weapon was deafening in the enclosed space. A scream echoed from the hallway, followed by the heavy thud of a body hitting the floor.
“Get down!” Frank yelled, pumping the shotgun to chamber another round.
A hail of automatic gunfire tore into the room. Bullets shredded the mattress, shattered the mirror on the vanity, and chewed into the plaster walls above my head. I screamed, covering my ears and curling into a tight ball in the corner, praying the drywall would hold.
Frank fired again. Another scream.
“He’s got a shotgun! Flash him!” a voice yelled from the hallway in heavily accented English.
A small, cylindrical object bounced across the carpet, stopping inches from Frank’s feet.
A flashbang.
“Close your eyes!” Frank roared.
I squeezed my eyes shut and buried my face in my knees.
BOOM.
The blinding light burned through my eyelids, and the concussive force stole the breath from my lungs. The ringing in my ears was absolute, drowning out all other sound.
When I finally managed to open my eyes, blinking away the dark spots, the room was a nightmare.
Frank was on his knees, clutching his chest, blood seeping through his blue flannel shirt. He had dropped the shotgun.
Three armed men in black tactical gear stormed into the room, their assault rifles leveled at the bleeding old man.
I screamed, trying to scramble toward him, but one of the men casually swung his rifle, the heavy stock catching me in the ribs. I collapsed onto the floor, gasping for air, the pain blinding me.
“Check the safe,” the leader of the men ordered, stepping over the ruined armchair.
One of the men knelt by the bed, shining a flashlight into the open steel vault.
“It’s empty, boss,” the man said.
The leader sighed, a sound of profound annoyance. He looked down at Frank, who was coughing weakly, trying to stem the bleeding from his chest.
“You’re a stubborn old fool, Frank,” the leader said, pulling a sleek, suppressed pistol from his holster. “Where is the ledger? Where is the proof?”
Frank looked up, spitting blood onto the carpet. A defiant, bloody grin touched his lips.
“It’s gone, you son of a bitch,” Frank rasped. “And Vincent is going to burn your entire world down.”
The leader raised the pistol, aiming it directly at Frank’s forehead.
“Vincent is dying at the docks as we speak,” the man sneered. “You lose.”
He squeezed the trigger.
Click.
The gun didn't fire.
The leader frowned, looking at his weapon.
Before he could rack the slide, a shadow detached itself from the thick smoke pouring in from the hallway.
A tall, heavily scarred man in a tailored suit stepped into the room.
Marco.
Vincent’s head of security hadn't gone to the docks. He had stayed behind.
Marco didn't say a word. He moved with terrifying, lethal precision. He grabbed the leader by the back of the neck and drove a combat knife directly into the side of his throat.
The man dropped without a sound.
The other two tactical guards spun around, raising their rifles.
Marco drew his sidearm with his free hand and fired two shots in rapid succession. Both guards took a bullet perfectly between the eyes, collapsing backward onto the ruined mattress.
The room was suddenly, terrifyingly quiet again, smelling of cordite, blood, and smoke.
Marco holstered his weapon and immediately dropped to his knees beside Frank, pressing his large hands over the old man’s bleeding chest.
“Hold on, Frank,” Marco grunted, his scarred face tight with worry. “I’ve got you.”
“Marco,” Frank coughed, grasping the enforcer’s sleeve. “You didn't go with him.”
“Vincent ordered me to stay back,” Marco explained, pulling a pressure bandage from his pocket. “He knew it was a trap. He knew they’d hit the house while he was gone.”
I dragged myself across the floor, ignoring the agonizing pain in my ribs, and knelt on the other side of Frank. I grabbed his hand, tears streaming down my face.
“You’re going to be okay, Frank,” I wept. “You’re going to be okay.”
Frank looked at me, his eyes softening. He reached his bloody hand into the pocket of his cardigan and pulled out the thick, sealed manila envelope.
He pressed it into my hands.
“Julia,” Frank whispered, his voice fading. “You have to get this to Vincent. Promise me.”
“I promise,” I sobbed, clutching the envelope to my chest. “But you have to tell him yourself! You have to hold on!”
Frank smiled faintly. He looked at Marco.
“Tell my son,” Frank breathed, his eyes fluttering closed, “that I buttoned my own shirt today.”
His hand slipped from Marco’s grip. His chest stopped moving.
“Frank!” I screamed, shaking his shoulders. “Frank, wake up!”
Marco checked his pulse. The hardened enforcer closed his eyes and bowed his head for a brief, silent second.
“He’s gone, Julia,” Marco said softly.
A devastating, crushing grief washed over me. The man who had refused to be called ‘sweetheart,’ the man who had fought for twenty minutes to button a shirt, was dead.
I looked down at the manila envelope in my hands. The envelope he had died protecting.
“What is this, Marco?” I asked, my voice trembling violently. “What did he die for?”
Marco looked at the envelope, his jaw clenching.
“That envelope,” Marco said, his voice dropping to a dangerous, vibrating hum, “contains the only copy of a recorded phone call from twelve years ago. The call that proves who actually hired Bianca to push Maria Marino down those stairs.”
My eyes widened in sheer, unadulterated horror. “She didn't do it alone?”
“No,” Marco said, standing up and racking his weapon. “She was hired. By the man Vincent is currently walking into a trap to meet at the docks.”
“Who?” I breathed.
May you like
Marco looked at me, his eyes filled with a terrifying, absolute vengeance.
“His own uncle,” Marco said.
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