Chapter 7 - THE WRONG HOSTAGE
The rain beat against the glass roof of the greenhouse, masking the sound of my ragged breathing.
Through the dark, rain-streaked panes, I watched the standoff on the patio.
Uncle Vincenzo stood perfectly straight despite his silver-handled cane. He looked like an aristocratic grandfather, wearing a bespoke tweed coat against the chill. But the suppressed pistol in his hand was perfectly steady, aimed dead at Luca’s heart.
“Where is Emily?” Luca demanded, his voice carrying over the storm. He didn’t drop his weapon. He kept it aimed at Vincenzo, even as Vanessa struggled in his grip.
“I have men at the girl’s apartment,” Vincenzo lied smoothly, holding up my mother’s silver rosary. The beads caught the glare of the emergency floodlight. “They found this by her bed. A beautiful piece of silver. It would be a shame if her blood stained it.”
My mother let out a muffled sob behind me in the greenhouse. I clamped my hand over her mouth, pulling her tighter into the shadows of the large ferns.
He’s bluffing, I thought frantically. His men tore up the apartment hours ago and found nothing. He’s using the rosary to force Luca to surrender.
“Let Vanessa go, Luca,” Vincenzo ordered gently, like a disappointed father. “Give me the keys to the estate, and transfer the offshore accounts. The Moretti family needs a true leader again. You’ve become soft, building legal businesses, paying taxes like a commoner.”
“I built an empire that doesn’t require killing our own people!” Luca shouted.
Vanessa wrenched her arm, trying to break free. “You’re weak, Luca! My father and Vincenzo are going to wipe you out!”
Luca didn’t look at her. He kept his eyes locked on his uncle.
“If you have Emily,” Luca said slowly, testing the waters, “put her on the phone.”
Vincenzo’s smile faltered just a fraction. “She is currently… indisposed.”
Luca’s grip on his gun tightened. I could see his tactical mind working. He knew something was wrong.
Suddenly, a loud crack echoed from the second floor of the mansion.
The patio doors blew open, and Michael stepped out. He was holding a tactical rifle, aimed directly at Vincenzo’s head.
“Drop the gun, old man,” Michael commanded.
Vincenzo didn’t even flinch. He just laughed. “Little Michael. The bastard son playing soldier. Do you really think you can shoot your own blood?”
“You’re not my blood,” Michael spat. “You’re a parasite.”
Vincenzo sighed, lowering his cane. “I suppose it’s time to stop playing games.”
He raised his free hand and snapped his fingers.
From the shadows of the manicured hedges, six men in tactical gear stepped forward, raising assault rifles. They surrounded the patio. Luca and Michael were completely outnumbered.
Vanessa ripped herself free from Luca’s grip and ran behind Vincenzo, laughing breathlessly.
“Take their weapons,” Vincenzo ordered his men.
Two guards moved in. Luca and Michael, seeing the overwhelming odds, slowly lowered their guns and let them be kicked away.
“Now,” Vincenzo said, stepping closer to Luca. “Where is the ledger? The lawyer was supposed to have it at the restaurant.”
Luca remained silent.
Vincenzo raised the heavy silver cane and struck Luca violently across the face.
Luca dropped to one knee, blood instantly pouring from his split lip.
“Luca!” I screamed involuntarily.
The sound echoed out of the greenhouse.
Vincenzo froze. He turned his head slowly toward the glass structure. A cruel, delighted smile spread across his wrinkled face.
“Well, well,” Vincenzo purred. “It seems the little bird wasn’t in her cage after all.”
He pointed his pistol at the greenhouse. “Bring her to me. And whoever she is hiding with.”
Three guards sprinted toward us.
“Run!” Julian yelled, shoving me and my mother toward the back exit of the greenhouse.
We scrambled through the rows of orchids and ferns, bursting through the rear door into the muddy garden. But the guards were too fast. They tackled Julian to the ground, ripping the leather ledger from his hands.
Another guard grabbed my mother by the hair, dragging her backward.
“Mom!” I yelled, turning back.
A heavy hand clamped onto my shoulder, spinning me around. A cold rifle barrel pressed against my cheek.
We were marched out of the dark garden and onto the brightly lit patio.
Luca looked up from the ground, his eyes wide with panic as he saw me. He tried to stand, but a guard drove a rifle butt into his ribs, keeping him down.
“Ah, the dishwashing whore and her brat,” Vanessa sneered, stepping forward.
Vincenzo took the heavy ledger from his guard. He ran his hand lovingly over the leather cover.
“Twenty-three years I have waited for this book,” Vincenzo whispered. “Twenty-three years in exile because my brother was a coward.”
He unclasped the lock and flipped it open.
He stared at the pages.
Then, his smile vanished.
He flipped another page. Then another. He frantically tore through the book, ripping pages out in the rain.
“Where is it?” Vincenzo roared, his calm facade completely shattering. “Where are the accounts?!”
I looked down at the pages scattering across the wet stone.
They weren’t financial records.
They were recipes.
Rows and rows of my mother’s handwriting. Measurements for flour, tomatoes, garlic, and basil.
Julian, who was bleeding from a cut on his forehead, let out a harsh, bloody laugh.
“Did you really think Arthur Moretti would hide the most damning evidence of his life in a book he kept in his desk?” Julian mocked.
Vincenzo threw the recipe book into the mud. He marched over to Julian and pressed his gun to the lawyer’s head.
“Where is the real ledger?” Vincenzo demanded softly.
Julian looked him dead in the eye.
“It’s exactly where Arthur left it. Inside the handle of the old red cooking pot.”
My breath caught in my throat.
The pot.
The old, scratched pot that Vanessa had tried to throw away at the engagement dinner just three hours ago. The pot that I had fought to keep on the serving cart.
Vincenzo slowly turned his head to look at Vanessa.
“Where is the pot, Vanessa?” he asked, his voice trembling with rage.
Vanessa’s face went chalk white. “I… I left it in the dining room.”
“Go get it,” Vincenzo ordered his men.
Two guards ran into the dark mansion. A minute later, they returned, holding the dented red pot. The Sunday gravy had spilled, staining the sides.
Vincenzo grabbed the pot. He looked at the thick, hollow iron handles. He pulled a folding knife from his pocket and jammed it into the seam of the right handle, prying upward.
With a loud crack, the outer shell of the handle snapped off.
Inside, tightly rolled and wrapped in plastic, was a bundle of microfiche film. The true financial records.
Vincenzo laughed triumphantly. He pulled the film out, holding it up in the rain.
“I win, Luca,” Vincenzo whispered. “I have the money. I have the proof. And now, I have your life.”
He aimed his gun at Luca’s head.
“No!” I screamed, throwing myself forward.
But as I moved, my mother reached inside her wet coat.
May you like
And pulled out the heavy, rusted revolver from the trapdoor.
BANG.
