Chapter 5 - The True Betrayal
The heavy brass lamp shook in my sweaty palms, completely useless against the barrel of Matteo’s silenced pistol.
Matteo stepped over the splintered remains of the doorframe. His eyes were wide, manic, completely devoid of the polished charm he wore for the donors. The blood on his tuxedo sleeve told me he wasn't bluffing about Roman’s guards.
He saw the plastic pouch in my other hand.
“Toss it on the bed,” Matteo ordered, leveling the gun at Lily, who was screaming and crying, burying her face into the pillows.
“Don't point that at her!” I shrieked, dropping the brass lamp and throwing the waterproof pouch onto the mattress.
Matteo snatched it up. He ripped it open and dumped the black USB drive and the train ticket into his palm. A cruel, relieved smile stretched across his face.
“He really thought he could outsmart me,” Matteo laughed breathlessly. “Your pathetic husband thought a flash drive would save his family. This little piece of plastic holds ten years of ledgers. Proof that I wasn't just stealing from the charity foundation.”
I stared at him, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm. “What did you do, Matteo?”
“I skimmed off the top of the Chicago Syndicate’s pension fund,” Matteo spat, his eyes wild. “Millions. The Commission would have executed me if they found out. David figured it out. He was going to give this drive to Roman to save his own skin.”
He pocketed the USB drive.
“And now,” Matteo sneered, raising the gun again. “I’m going to tie up the last loose end.”
I threw myself over Lily, shielding her small body with mine. I squeezed my eyes shut, bracing for the burning impact of a bullet.
“Matteo.”
The voice was cold. Absolute. And it came from the hallway right behind him.
Matteo spun around.
Roman Bellini stood in the shattered doorway. He was bleeding from a cut above his eyebrow, and his suit jacket was torn, but he held a massive tactical shotgun leveled directly at his brother’s chest.
“You missed one guard,” Roman said, his voice dropping to a lethal, vibrating bass.
Matteo froze, his hand trembling as he kept his pistol raised. “Don't do it, Roman! I have the drive! If I die, it automatically sends the ledgers to the Feds!”
“I don't care about the Feds,” Roman said.
With a terrifying calm, Roman pumped the shotgun. The mechanical clack-clack echoed like a death knell in the lavish bedroom.
“You pointed a gun at a child,” Roman said. “You pointed a gun at the woman I love.”
I gasped. The words hung in the air, heavy and impossible. The woman I love.
Matteo let out a deranged laugh. “You love a maid? You’re pathetic, Roman! You’ve gone soft!”
“Drop the gun,” Roman ordered.
“I’m your brother!” Matteo screamed. “You won't shoot your own blood!”
“You stopped being my blood the night you murdered David Miller.”
Matteo’s finger twitched on the trigger.
Roman didn't hesitate. He pulled the trigger of the shotgun.
The blast was deafening. I covered Lily’s ears, screaming as the sound shattered the large bay windows behind us.
But Roman hadn't aimed for Matteo’s chest.
The blast obliterated Matteo’s right shoulder.
Matteo screamed in agony, the pistol flying from his hand as he was thrown backward into the hallway, collapsing in a heap of blood and shattered wood.
Roman tossed the shotgun aside and immediately rushed into the room, dropping to his knees beside the bed.
“Grace! Lily! Are you hurt?” he asked, his hands frantically checking us for injuries.
“We’re okay,” I sobbed, throwing my arms around his neck. “We’re okay, you saved us.”
Roman buried his face in my neck, holding me so tightly I could feel the frantic beating of his heart against my chest. “I thought I lost you. I was at the bank opening the safe deposit box, and my men radioed that the East Wing was compromised.”
“He took the USB drive,” I cried, pulling back to look at him. “He said it proves he stole from the Syndicate Commission.”
Roman’s expression hardened. He stood up, walked into the hallway, and stood over his writhing, screaming brother.
Roman reached into Matteo’s pocket and pulled out the black flash drive.
“You’re finished, Matteo,” Roman said coldly. “The Commission is arriving in one hour. I’m handing you over to them.”
Matteo spat blood onto the carpet, laughing weakly. “You think... you’re so righteous. Open the safe deposit box, Roman. See what I kept.”
Roman reached into his own coat pocket. He pulled out a large, heavy manila envelope. The contents of Bank Box 402.
“I already did,” Roman said.
Roman opened the envelope. He pulled out a stack of 8x10 photographs and tossed them onto Matteo’s bleeding chest.
I stood in the doorway, staring down at the photos.
They were grainy, nighttime surveillance shots. They showed a dark, rainy highway. A crushed silver sedan pushed against a guardrail.
And standing next to the wreckage, shaking hands with Matteo, was a man I recognized instantly.
It was the stage manager from the charity gala. But more importantly, it was the man who had been my husband’s best friend.
May you like
Uncle Paul.
“Paul was driving the car that killed David,” Matteo smiled a bloody, jagged smile. “Your precious husband’s best friend sold him out for fifty grand. How does that feel, Grace?”
