Chapter 7 - THE GALA
Antonio stepped into the small pantry, closing the door quietly behind him.
The muffled sounds of classical music from the gala outside provided a surreal backdrop to the deadly tension in the tiny room.
Antonio didn't look at Mrs. Hargrove. His cold eyes were locked entirely on Sophie.
“You really are a persistent little pest, aren't you?” Antonio sneered, raising the silenced pistol and pointing it directly at Sophie’s chest.
Sophie froze, her hands instinctively wrapping around her pregnant belly. Her heart was hammering so fast she felt dizzy.
“Mr. Antonio,” Mrs. Hargrove whimpered, pressing herself against the back wall. “She knows. She was trying to blackmail me.”
“Shut up, Martha,” Antonio snapped. He glanced at the terrified housekeeper. “You just confessed to multiple felonies to a maid. You’re a liability.”
Before Mrs. Hargrove could even gasp, Antonio casually shifted his aim and fired.
Pfft.
The silenced gunshot was nothing more than a sharp hiss in the pantry.
Mrs. Hargrove’s eyes went wide. She clutched her shoulder, blood blooming rapidly across her crisp white blouse. She collapsed onto the floor, screaming in agony.
Sophie screamed, backing away until she hit the metal shelving again.
Antonio turned the gun back to Sophie.
“Now,” he smiled darkly. “Where is my brother?”
“I don't know,” Sophie lied, her voice shaking uncontrollably. “He just dropped me off.”
“Liar,” Antonio said, stepping closer. “Vincent doesn't leave loose ends. If you’re here, he’s here.”
Antonio reached out and violently grabbed the front of Sophie’s catering uniform. He yanked her forward, pressing the warm barrel of the gun against her temple.
Sophie squeezed her eyes shut, a tear slipping down her cheek. I’m sorry, Daisy, she thought desperately.
“Let’s go for a walk,” Antonio whispered in her ear.
He dragged Sophie out of the pantry, using her as a human shield as they moved into the bustling kitchen.
The catering staff screamed and scattered like frightened birds as Antonio pushed through them, the gun pressed firmly to Sophie’s head.
He dragged her out the back doors, onto the expansive stone terrace.
The gala came to an abrupt, horrifying halt.
Politicians dropped their champagne glasses. Socialites shrieked, backing away toward the manicured lawns.
“Vincent!” Antonio roared, his voice echoing across the estate. “I know you’re out there! Show yourself, or the maid and the bastard she’s carrying die right here on the patio!”
The silence that followed was deafening.
Only the sound of the wind rustling the oak trees answered him.
Sophie sobbed quietly, her legs shaking so badly she could barely stand. Antonio’s grip on her collar was suffocating.
Suddenly, a calm, deep voice echoed from the balcony directly above them.
“I’m right here, Antonio.”
Antonio snapped his head up, dragging Sophie with him.
Standing on the second-story balcony—right outside Nicholas’s bedroom—was Vincent.
He wasn't holding a gun.
He was holding a thick, blue-backed legal document.
“Let her go,” Vincent said, his voice carrying clearly over the terrified crowd. “This is between you and me.”
Antonio laughed, a manic, desperate sound.
“You think a piece of paper is going to save her, Vincent? I own this house! I own the old man! I have the police in my pocket!”
“You don't own anything,” Vincent said coldly.
Vincent dropped the document over the balcony railing. It fluttered down, landing perfectly on the stone terrace near Antonio’s feet.
Antonio frowned, glancing down at the paper without lowering his gun.
“What is that?”
“That is the original Irrevocable Trust,” Vincent said loudly, ensuring every politician and judge in the crowd heard him. “Signed by our father three days before his stroke. It legally supersedes your forged Power of Attorney.”
Antonio’s face twisted in rage. “The Trust is dormant! The old man is legally incompetent! My paperwork still stands!”
“Not anymore,” a raspy, frail voice said.
The entire crowd gasped.
Sophie’s eyes widened in absolute shock.
Stepping out onto the balcony, moving slowly but deliberately, was Nicholas Bellini.
He wasn't in his wheelchair.
He was standing.
He leaned heavily on a wooden cane, his hand gripping Vincent’s shoulder for support, but he was standing on his own two feet.
The IV fluids had done their job. The paralytic was flushed from his system.
The old Don of Chicago had returned.
“Dad?” Antonio whispered, the color completely draining from his face.
Nicholas glared down at the son who had tortured him for six years.
“I am awake,” Nicholas rasped, his voice weak but filled with terrifying authority. “I am competent. And you, Antonio, are no longer my son.”
The crowd erupted into chaotic whispers. The judges and politicians who had accepted Antonio’s bribes were already backing away, realizing their host was completely exposed.
Antonio’s hand shook. The gun pressed against Sophie’s temple wavered.
“It’s a trick!” Antonio screamed, panic finally breaking through his arrogant facade. “He’s a vegetable! Vincent set this up!”
“It’s over, Antonio,” Vincent said, drawing his weapon and aiming it directly at his brother’s head. “Drop the gun. Let her go.”
“No!” Antonio roared, tightening his grip on Sophie. “If I go down, I’m taking what you care about with me!”
He shifted his aim, pointing the gun directly at Sophie’s pregnant belly.
“NO!” Vincent screamed, leaping over the balcony railing.
Time seemed to slow down.
Vincent fell through the air, dropping fifteen feet toward the terrace.
But as Antonio pulled the trigger, Sophie didn't freeze.
She thought of her baby. She thought of the little girl she was fighting to protect.
With a surge of pure, maternal adrenaline, Sophie threw her elbow backward, smashing it as hard as she could into Antonio’s ribs.
The gunshot went off.
But the bullet missed, shattering a stone planter a foot to her right.
Antonio stumbled backward, dropping Sophie.
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Before he could raise the gun again, Vincent landed on the terrace with a heavy thud. He didn't even pause to recover from the drop.
He lunged forward, tackling his brother to the stone floor.
