Chapter 6 - THE RED DRESS AND THE WOODEN TOY
The muffled thuds of the three bodies hitting the floor seemed to echo endlessly in the music room. The smell of gunpowder instantly overpowered the faint scent of burnt leather.
I stood entirely still, my fingers digging into the heavy cover of the ledger.
Brooke stepped over the bleeding guards, her high heels clicking rhythmically on the hardwood. She didn't look like a terrified mistress anymore. She looked like an executioner. The red silk dress that Vincent had bought her now seemed like a cruel joke—she was draped in the color of the blood she had just spilled.
“Put the gun down, Brooke,” Leo said, his voice dangerously calm. He hadn't raised his own weapon, but his eyes tracked her every movement.
Brooke laughed, leveling the suppressed pistol squarely at Leo’s chest. “You’re a ghost, Leo. Ghosts don't give orders. Drop the gun, or I blow your heart out right now.”
Leo slowly placed his silver handgun on the piano lid.
“Good,” Brooke said. She turned her cold gaze to me. “Now, Helen. Slide the ledger across the piano. No sudden movements.”
Vincent was still on the floor, paralyzed by the revelations, the betrayal, and the sudden violence. He looked like a hollow shell of the mob boss I had married.
“Brooke,” Vincent whispered, his voice trembling. “You don't know who you’re dealing with. The cartel will use you and kill you.”
“Shut up, Vince,” Brooke snapped, not even glancing at him. “You’re done. Your empire is crumbling, your men are abandoning you, and you’re crying on the floor like a pathetic child. I’ve been feeding the cartel your shipping schedules for six months. They promised me the Chicago territory if I hand over the ledger.”
I looked at the ledger in my hands. It wasn't just a book of numbers anymore; it was the anchor holding my entire family hostage. If Brooke got it, the cartel would take over, and they would leave no loose ends. Vincent, Leo, Lily, Leo—none of us would survive the night.
“Where is my daughter?” I asked again, my voice deathly quiet.
“I told you, they’re in the car outside,” Leo said, his eyes fixed on Brooke. “My men are with them.”
“Your men?” Brooke mocked. “You mean the three idiots I just paid double to walk away? Your car is empty, Leo. I had Lily and the kid moved ten minutes ago. They’re on their way to a private airstrip.”
Leo’s scarred face twitched. For the first time, genuine panic flared in his eyes. He had waited twenty years for his daughter, and in an instant, Brooke had snatched her away.
“Hand it over, Helen,” Brooke demanded, stepping closer. “Last warning.”
I looked down at the piano. The silver rosary, the gold bracelet, the child’s drawing. Decades of lies, pain, and secrets laid bare on the black lacquered wood.
My eyes caught something else. Poking out from the pocket of the tiny blue coat Leo had thrown on the chair was a small, hand-carved wooden toy. A little wooden dog.
Vincent had carved that dog for Lily when she was a little girl. It was his one moment of pure, untainted fatherhood. He had spent hours on the porch, whittling the wood, smiling in a way the mafia world never allowed him to.
I realized then that despite his monstrous lies, Vincent loved Lily. And despite his vengeance, Leo loved her too.
But Brooke? Brooke only loved power.
“You want the ledger?” I asked, my voice suddenly loud and clear.
“Slide it,” Brooke ordered, her finger tightening on the trigger.
“I won't slide it,” I said. I lifted the heavy book with both hands. “I’ll give it to you. But you have to take it from me.”
Brooke sneered. “Fine. Walk it over.”
I took a step away from the piano. My legs felt like lead, but my mind was moving faster than it had in thirty years. I walked slowly, the ledger held tightly against my chest.
“Helen, don't do it,” Vincent choked out from the floor.
I ignored him. I stopped three feet away from Brooke. She held the gun in her right hand, reaching out with her left to take the book.
“Hand it over,” she ordered.
I extended the book. But as her fingers brushed the leather cover, I didn't let go.
Instead, I looked her dead in the eye and whispered, “You forgot one thing about this room, Brooke.”
“What?” she snapped.
“I told you... I never stopped practicing.”
With a sudden, violent twist, I swung the heavy, solid-wood ledger upward with all my strength, smashing it directly into Brooke’s wrist.
The impact was brutal. Brooke screamed as the bone snapped with a sickening crack. The gun flew from her hand, skittering across the hardwood floor.
Before she could recover, Leo moved with terrifying speed. He tackled Brooke to the ground, pinning her down and pressing his forearm against her throat.
I stumbled back, my chest heaving, the ledger still clutched in my hands.
Vincent stared at me, his mouth open in pure shock.
“Where are they?” Leo roared, pressing harder against Brooke’s windpipe. “Where did you send the plane?”
Brooke choked, her face turning purple, a bloody smile stretching across her lips. “You’re... too late,” she gasped.
Suddenly, a loud, piercing alarm echoed through the house. The perimeter breach siren.
Vincent scrambled to his feet, his mafia instincts finally kicking through the shock. “The cartel,” he yelled over the blaring siren. “They didn't wait for her. They’re hitting the house now.”
Leo dragged Brooke to her feet, using her as a human shield, and grabbed his gun from the piano. “We need to get to the basement bunker. Now!”
“No,” I said firmly.
They both looked at me.
“The bunker is a dead end,” I said, walking to the heavy velvet drapes. I pulled them entirely open. The massive windows overlooked the dark garden. “They know about the bunker. Brooke told them. But there’s a tunnel under the greenhouse that Vincent built twenty years ago. The one he used to sneak out to see his mistress.”
Vincent looked away, shame burning his face.
“We go through the greenhouse,” I ordered, pointing to the shadows outside.
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Before anyone could move, a blinding spotlight hit the window, illuminating the entire music room. And standing in the garden, illuminated by the harsh white light, was a figure holding a six-year-old boy by the hand.
It was my daughter, Lily. And she was holding a gun pointed directly at the window.
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