The Watch Beneath the Floorboards

Vincent Moretti walked slowly toward the open storage locker, his polished shoes clicking sharply against the concrete floor.

He was in his late sixties, a man who built his entire reputation on being the sophisticated, legitimate face of the Moretti family.

“Uncle Vincent,” Luca said, stepping in front of me, shielding me from the weapon. “You poisoned her.”

“I protected this family,” Vincent corrected smoothly, stopping ten feet away. “Your father was weak, Luca. He fell in love with a common schoolteacher. He was ready to leave his wife, abandon the syndicate, and blow up our alliance with the Bellinis over her.”

He pointed the gun at my chest.

“I couldn’t allow that. So, I made sure Catherine Mercer became too weak, too sick to ever run away with him. Antonio spent his life paying her medical bills, thinking it was a tragedy of nature. He never knew it was me.”

My stomach violently twisted.

My mother’s suffering—years of hospital beds, crippling pain, and my own stolen childhood—was all orchestrated by the man standing in front of me.

“Why keep the files?” I demanded, my voice shaking with rage.

“Leverage,” Vincent smiled. “I kept them to blackmail the doctors. But George Marino found out. The old fool started investigating on Antonio’s orders. George hid these files here to protect them.”

He sighed dramatically.

“I thought Vanessa burning down the mansion would solve all my problems. But she was too incompetent to kill you both.”

Vincent raised the pistol directly at Luca’s head.

“I’m sorry, Luca. But you’re too much like your father. Soft.”

He pulled the trigger.

But the gun didn't fire.

Instead, a deafening gunshot echoed from the opposite end of the hallway.

Vincent cried out in agony, dropping his weapon as a bullet shattered his kneecap. He collapsed to the concrete, clutching his leg in shock.

His two bodyguards immediately spun around, drawing their weapons.

Two more shots rang out. The bodyguards dropped.

Standing at the end of the hall, the barrel of his revolver still smoking, was George Marino.

He didn't look like a retired driver anymore. He looked like the man who had survived thirty years in the Chicago underworld.

“I told you, Vincent,” George said, walking slowly down the hallway, keeping his gun aimed at the bleeding man on the floor. “I promised Antonio I would protect his kids.”

Luca kicked Vincent’s dropped gun away.

“George,” Luca said, breathing heavily. “How did you know we were here?”

“Because I slipped that ticket into Julia’s pocket at the motel,” George said, offering me a small, sad smile. “I knew if I gave it to Luca directly, Vincent’s spies inside the family would find out. I had to let you find it yourselves.”

George looked down at Vincent, who was groaning in pain.

“Your father didn’t leave the money to Julia out of guilt, Luca. He left it so she could take her mother far away from this city. Far away from him.”

I looked at the crate of medical files, the physical evidence of my mother’s torture.

“I’m going to destroy him,” I whispered, tears of absolute fury burning my eyes.

Luca put a hand on my shoulder.