Chapter 8 - THE ARSONIST
The drive north was a blur of neon lights and torrential rain.
Vincent drove his black SUV with terrifying precision, the engine roaring as he wove through Chicago traffic. I sat in the passenger seat, clutching my mother’s sketchbook to my chest like a shield.
“Who is the man in the drawing?” I asked, my voice barely carrying over the sound of the rain lashing against the windshield.
“His name is Tommy ‘The Torch’ Russo,” Vincent said, his jaw clenched tight. “He was a freelance arsonist twelve years ago. He disappeared right after Marco died. Everyone assumed the Morettis killed him to tie up loose ends.”
“But they didn't,” I realized.
“No,” Vincent said, taking a sharp turn that threw me against the door. “Sabrina kept him alive. She used him for leverage against Donato. And now she needs him dead before the FBI can offer him a plea deal in exchange for testifying against her.”
We pulled into a rundown industrial park on the edge of the city. Rusting shipping containers and abandoned warehouses loomed in the darkness like rotting teeth.
Vincent killed the headlights, letting the SUV roll silently to a stop behind a massive pile of scrap metal.
“Stay in the car, Rachel,” Vincent ordered, unbuckling his seatbelt and drawing his weapon.
“No,” I said, surprising myself with the firmness in my voice. “Sabrina killed my mother. I’m not waiting in the car.”
Vincent looked at me. He saw the fierce, unyielding determination in my eyes, the same determination my mother had when she drew that picture twelve years ago.
He didn't argue. He reached into his center console and pulled out a small, heavy taser. He handed it to me.
“Stay behind me,” Vincent said. “And if Sabrina points a gun at you, you don't hesitate.”
We slipped out of the SUV into the freezing rain.
Vincent moved silently through the shadows, leading us toward a small, corrugated tin shack at the edge of the lot. A single, dim light glowed from a dirty window.
As we crept closer, I heard voices.
“I need the money, Sabrina!” a raspy voice yelled from inside the shack. “You promised me ten million to stay quiet!”
“And you’ll get it, Tommy,” Sabrina’s voice replied, sickly sweet and laced with venom. “Just as soon as you turn around.”
Vincent didn't wait.
He kicked the flimsy tin door open with a deafening crash, raising his weapon.
“Drop it, Sabrina!” Vincent roared.
Sabrina spun around, her face twisted in absolute panic. She was holding a suppressed pistol aimed at the back of a thin, balding man with a spiderweb tattoo on his neck.
Tommy Russo screamed and dropped to the floor, covering his head.
“Vincent!” Sabrina shrieked, backing away until she hit the dirty wall of the shack. “You can't do this! I’m your fiancée!”
“You’re a murderer,” Vincent said coldly, keeping his gun leveled at her chest. “You killed my brother. You killed Elena Quinn. And you tried to kill my mother. It’s over.”
Sabrina looked wildly around the room, her eyes darting like a cornered rat. She saw me standing behind Vincent, holding the taser.
Her lips curled into a vicious sneer.
“You think you’ve won, you stupid maid?” Sabrina spat. “You think putting me in prison brings your mother back?”
“No,” I said quietly, stepping out from behind Vincent. I held up my mother’s sketchbook. “But it proves she was right. And it proves you were nothing but a coward.”
Sabrina screamed in rage and raised her gun, aiming it directly at my face.
Before she could pull the trigger, Vincent fired.
He didn't shoot to kill. He shot Sabrina in the right shoulder.
Sabrina shrieked, dropping the gun as the impact spun her around and threw her to the dirty floor.
Tommy Russo was whimpering in the corner, holding his hands up in surrender.
Vincent walked over, kicking Sabrina’s dropped weapon across the room. He looked down at the woman he had almost married.
“The FBI is three minutes away,” Vincent said softly. “You’re going to spend the rest of your life in a concrete box, Sabrina. And every night, you’re going to see my brother’s face.”
Sirens began to wail in the distance, growing louder by the second.
Vincent turned to me. The lethal mafia boss was gone, replaced by a man who looked profoundly exhausted, but finally at peace.
“It’s done, Rachel,” Vincent said, reaching out to gently touch my shoulder. “You kept your mother’s promise.”
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I let out a shaky breath, the adrenaline finally leaving my body. I looked down at the sketchbook in my hand, the rain washing away the grime of the night.
For the first time in twelve years, I didn't feel invisible anymore.
