THE SCISSORS IN THE STUDY

The Bellini mansion was eerily quiet when they arrived.

The heavy oak front doors were wide open. Two of Dominic’s loyal guards lay unconscious on the marble foyer, bleeding from blunt force trauma. Victor had paid off the right people on the inside.

Dominic moved silently, his gun drawn, signaling for Claire and Margaret to stay behind him.

They approached the grand dining room.

Sitting at the head of the long, empty table was the eighty-six-year-old Grandfather Bellini. He sat perfectly straight, dignified and calm, wearing the old, repaired wool coat.

Standing behind him, pressing the barrel of a 9mm pistol directly against the old man’s temple, was Victor Hale.

Victor looked manic. His suit was torn, his broken wrist hung uselessly at his side, and sweat poured down his face.

“Drop it, Dominic!” Victor screamed as Dominic entered the room. “Drop the gun or I paint the table with the old man’s brains!”

Dominic froze. His grandfather’s eyes met his. The old man wasn't afraid. He looked incredibly sad.

“Do it, Dominic,” the Grandfather said quietly.

Dominic slowly lowered his weapon and placed it on the floor, kicking it away.

Victor laughed, a hysterical, breathless sound. “I built this family! I advised your father when he was too weak to lead! I made the deals! And you were going to throw me away over a tailor?”

“You killed my mother,” Dominic said, his voice echoing in the large room.

“She was a liability!” Victor spat. “She wanted your father to go legitimate. She would have bankrupted us!”

Victor’s eyes darted to the doorway, landing on Margaret and Claire.

“Ah, the seamstress,” Victor sneered. “You couldn't just keep your mouth shut, could you? I should have killed you seventeen years ago.”

“I knew, Victor,” the Grandfather suddenly spoke.

Victor looked down at the old man. “What did you say?”

“I said I knew,” the Grandfather repeated smoothly. He patted the lapel of his old wool coat. “I knew Joseph hid something in this coat. The night before he disappeared, he came to the house. He was terrified. He hugged me, and he told me to never, ever throw this coat away. He said the truth would keep me warm.”

Dominic stared at his grandfather in shock. “You knew? For seventeen years?”

“I didn't know what it was,” the old man said sadly. “But I knew Victor was dangerous. And I knew you were too young to fight him, Dominic. So I wore the coat every winter. I waited for you to become the boss. I waited for you to be strong enough to finish him.”

Victor’s face twisted in sheer rage. “You senile old fool. I’m ending the Bellini line right now.”

Victor cocked the hammer of the gun.

Dominic tensed to lunge, knowing he wouldn't be fast enough.

But Claire stepped forward.

She held up the thick stack of letters they had retrieved from the locker at Union Station.

“Victor!” Claire yelled, her voice ringing with absolute authority. “The police already have copies!”

Victor froze, his eyes locking onto the letters.

“We went to the station before the rail yard,” Claire lied flawlessly, her eyes burning with defiance. “Dominic gave the evidence to a federal prosecutor. If you pull that trigger, you don't just die. You die in federal prison.”

For one split, agonizing second, Victor hesitated. His mind raced, calculating the lie.