Chapter 4 - THE BROTHER'S RETURN
The tension in the grand foyer was suffocating, thicker than the humid, rain-soaked air blowing through the open doors.
Vincent stood perfectly still, his gun aimed directly at Antonio’s chest.
“Give me one reason why I shouldn't drop you right here on my mother’s rug,” Vincent said, his voice terrifyingly calm.
Antonio laughed, a smooth, practiced sound that didn't reach his cold eyes. He leaned heavily on his silver-tipped cane, stepping further into the mansion.
“Because if I don't check in with my lawyer in twenty minutes, the files containing every dirty politician you’ve paid off in the last five years go directly to the FBI,” Antonio said casually. “And we both know the Bellini empire can't survive a federal RICO case right now.”
Vincent’s jaw tightened. He didn't lower his gun.
“You paralyzed him,” Vincent sneered. “Your own father. You trapped him in his own body.”
Antonio waved a dismissive hand. “He was always trapped in his own body, Vincent. I just gave him a little push. He exiled me. He took away my birthright. I simply took it back.”
Mrs. Hargrove cowered behind Antonio, shivering in her wet clothes.
“Mr. Antonio,” she whimpered. “He found the jewelry. He knows.”
“Shut up, Martha,” Antonio snapped without looking at her. He turned his gaze to Sophie, who was standing frozen behind Vincent, her hands resting protectively on her pregnant belly.
Antonio’s eyes narrowed.
“And who is this?” he asked, a cruel smile touching his lips. “A new maid? Or are you finally starting a family, Vincent?”
“Don't look at her,” Vincent ordered, stepping slightly to block Sophie from view. “Get out of my house, Antonio. Before I decide the FBI case is worth it.”
“I’m not leaving without my property,” Antonio said, his tone turning sharp.
“The offshore accounts are frozen as of five minutes ago,” Vincent lied smoothly. “You have nothing.”
“I’m not talking about the money,” Antonio said.
He reached into his tailored gray suit and pulled out a folded piece of heavy, cream-colored parchment.
“I’m talking about the deed.”
Vincent frowned. “What deed?”
“To this estate,” Antonio said, unfolding the paper. He held it up. The gold seal of the State of Connecticut gleamed in the dim light of the foyer.
“As his legal medical proxy, I had Dad sign the estate over to me three years ago.”
“He couldn't sign anything,” Vincent spat. “You paralyzed him.”
“Oh, he signed it,” Antonio smiled darkly. “A thumbprint is perfectly legal in this state when a patient is incapacitated. It’s notarized. It’s filed. This house belongs to me, Vincent. You are trespassing.”
Sophie felt sick. Antonio hadn't just stolen the money; he had stolen the only place Nicholas felt safe.
“You have twenty-four hours to vacate my property,” Antonio said, turning back toward the open doors. “Take the old man with you. I don't care where you put him.”
Antonio stepped out into the rain, Mrs. Hargrove scurrying after him like a frightened rat.
Vincent didn't shoot. He lowered his gun, his chest heaving with contained fury.
He turned to Sophie.
“Pack a bag for him,” Vincent said softly. “We’re leaving.”
“Sir? Where are we going?” Sophie asked, her heart breaking for the old man upstairs.
“To a safe house in the city. We need to get him off that drug. We need him to wake up.”
Within an hour, Matteo and a team of loyal guards had packed Nicholas’s belongings.
Sophie carefully wrapped the old man in a thick, warm blanket. She had packed the single yellow rose in a plastic container of water, determined not to leave his mother’s memory behind.
As Matteo lifted Nicholas from his wheelchair to carry him to the SUV, the old man’s eyes met Sophie’s.
He was crying again.
“It’s okay, Mr. Nicholas,” Sophie promised, walking beside him, holding her umbrella over his head to shield him from the rain. “We’re going somewhere safe.”
The drive to the city took two hours.
The safe house was a massive, heavily fortified penthouse overlooking the Chicago skyline.
They settled Nicholas into a luxurious medical bed. Vincent immediately brought in his private, trusted doctor.
Dr. Aris examined Nicholas, reviewing the chemical breakdown Matteo had provided from the lab.
“The paralytic has a half-life of roughly forty-eight hours,” Dr. Aris explained quietly in the hallway outside the bedroom. “If we flush his system with IV fluids, he should regain some motor function by tomorrow night.”
Vincent rubbed his temples, exhausted. “And his speech?”
“That depends on how much damage the stroke actually did versus the drug,” the doctor said. “But he’s a fighter, Vincent. His vitals are strong for an eighty-two-year-old man.”
Vincent nodded, dismissing the doctor.
He walked back into the bedroom.
Sophie was sitting in a chair beside Nicholas’s bed, reading a book softly to him. The yellow rose was placed perfectly on the nightstand where he could see it.
Nicholas’s eyes were closed, resting peacefully for the first time in years.
Vincent stood in the doorway, watching them.
“You don't have to stay up with him, Sophie,” Vincent said quietly. “You need rest for the baby.”
Sophie looked up, closing the book.
“I don't mind, sir. I’m used to the late shifts.”
Vincent walked over and sat on the edge of the bed. He looked at his father’s sleeping face.
“My mother loved this city,” Vincent murmured, almost to himself. “She used to say the lights looked like stars that had fallen to earth.”
He looked at Sophie.
“What about your family? The baby’s father?”
Sophie looked down at her hands, resting on her belly. “He left when he found out I was pregnant. He didn't want the responsibility.”
Vincent’s jaw tightened. A flash of pure, protective anger crossed his face, but he quickly masked it.
“He’s a fool,” Vincent said softly.
Sophie blushed, looking away. “It’s just me and Daisy now. But we’ll be okay.”
“Daisy,” Vincent repeated, a small smile touching his lips. “After the flower.”
“My grandmother loved them.”
Vincent reached into his suit pocket. He pulled out a small, velvet pouch. The same pouch he had dug out of the mud under the roses.
He placed it gently into Sophie’s hand.
“Sir? What is this?”
“Open it.”
Sophie untied the string.
Inside was a delicate, gold necklace with a beautiful, diamond-encrusted daisy pendant.
“It was my mother’s,” Vincent said. “She wore it when she was pregnant with me.”
Sophie gasped, her eyes filling with tears. “Sir, I can't take this. It’s too valuable.”
“You saved my father’s life, Sophie,” Vincent said, his dark eyes locking onto hers with intense sincerity. “And you loved him when his own family abandoned him. My mother would have wanted you to have it.”
Sophie clutched the necklace to her chest, overwhelmed by the gesture.
But before she could thank him, a soft, raspy sound broke the quiet of the bedroom.
It wasn't the guttural groan of a paralyzed man.
It was a voice.
“Vin... cent...”
Vincent froze.
He slowly turned his head toward the bed.
Nicholas Bellini’s eyes were open.
And for the first time in six years, he was looking directly at his son.
“Dad?” Vincent breathed, falling to his knees beside the bed.
Nicholas swallowed hard, his throat dry and cracked. His trembling hand reached out, grabbing Vincent’s wrist.
“The deed...” Nicholas rasped, his voice barely a whisper, but filled with the fierce authority of the old Don.
“Dad, don't try to speak. It’s okay.”
“The deed... Antonio...” Nicholas coughed violently.
Sophie quickly poured a small cup of water and held the straw to the old man’s lips. He drank greedily.
“Thank you... Daisy’s mother,” Nicholas smiled weakly at Sophie.
Vincent stared at his father in awe. “You heard her. You remember.”
“I remember everything,” Nicholas whispered, his eyes hardening as he looked at his son. “Listen to me, Vincent. The deed Antonio has... it’s useless.”
Vincent frowned. “What do you mean? It’s notarized.”
Nicholas let out a dry, rattling laugh.
“I didn't suffer the stroke... on a Tuesday,” Nicholas gasped.
He looked at Sophie, then back at Vincent.
“I knew Antonio was poisoning my tea. I knew he was coming for the house.”
Nicholas’s grip on Vincent’s wrist tightened with sudden, fierce strength.
“Three days before the stroke... I transferred the estate into an Irrevocable Trust.”
Vincent’s eyes widened. “A trust? Who is the trustee?”
May you like
Nicholas’s eyes moved to the yellow rose on the nightstand.
“Your mother’s brother,” Nicholas whispered. “Uncle Carmine. Find him, Vincent. Find the original deed. And take our home back.”
