Chapter 11 - THE SHOTGUN
The blast of the shotgun was deafening in the enclosed space of the grand staircase.
The heavy buckshot slammed into Marco’s tactical vest, throwing his massive body backward like a ragdoll. He crashed over the mahogany banister, plummeting fifteen feet and hitting the marble floor of the foyer with a sickening crunch.
The house went completely still, save for the ringing in my ears.
Isabella stood at the top of the stairs, the shotgun still pressed against her shoulder, her chest heaving. The barrel was smoking. She didn’t look terrified; she looked like a lioness who had just defended her den.
Gabriel rushed up the stairs, ignoring the fallen security chief, and pulled Isabella into his arms. He carefully took the shotgun from her trembling hands and tossed it aside.
“Are you hurt?” Gabriel asked frantically, checking her over.
“I’m fine,” Isabella gasped, burying her face in his chest. “I heard the power cut out. I knew something was wrong. Lily and Leo are locked in the bathroom. They’re safe.”
I hurried over to Dominic, who was groaning on the floor, clutching his bleeding shoulder. “Let me look at it,” I said, pulling my apron off to press it against his wound. “It’s a through-and-through. You’re lucky, Dominic.”
“I’m tired of getting shot for this family,” Dominic winced, though a faint, relieved smile touched his lips.
Gabriel walked over to the banister and looked down at the foyer. Marco wasn’t moving. The betrayal of his oldest friend stung, but the relief of his family's safety washed it away.
“It’s over,” Gabriel said quietly. “It’s really over.”
He pulled his cell phone from his pocket. He dialed a number he hadn’t called in years. The direct line to the head of the New York Commission.
“Don Carlo,” Gabriel said when the line picked up.
“Gabriel Moretti,” a raspy, ancient voice replied. “I hear Chicago is burning tonight.”
“I’m putting the fire out,” Gabriel said, his voice hard. “Elias Romano is in federal custody. His daughter is with him. They’re going away for life.”
“And your father?” the Don asked carefully.
“My father is alive. He ordered a hit on my wife six years ago, and he funded the attack on my home tonight.” Gabriel looked at Isabella, who had walked down the stairs to stand beside him. “I’m sending you his ledger. And I’m stepping down.”
A long silence on the line. “You can’t just walk away from the Syndicate, Gabriel.”
“I am walking away,” Gabriel corrected. “Dominic will take over the legitimate shipping business. The rest of the territory is yours to divide. But if anyone—anyone—ever comes near my wife or my children again, I won’t send ledgers. I will come to New York myself.”
He hung up the phone and dropped it onto Marco’s chest.
Gabriel turned to us. “Pack your things. Just the essentials.”
“Where are we going?” Isabella asked.
“Somewhere Elias, Marco, and my father will never find us. Somewhere we can be a normal family.”
Three days later, we were standing on the porch of a beautiful, sprawling farmhouse in the lush green hills of upstate New York. It was miles away from any city, surrounded by apple orchards and a quiet lake.
I had driven Lily and Leo in Gabriel’s SUV, while Gabriel and Isabella handled the legal paperwork in the city to formally adopt Leo and change all their names. They were no longer the Moretti crime family. They were just the Morettis.
“It’s huge!” Lily squealed, running across the wide wooden porch with Mr. Buttons tucked under her arm.
Leo, who was still shy but slowly warming up to his new life, gripped my hand tightly. “Are there horses, Claire?”
“I think your dad said there’s a stable out back, buddy,” I smiled.
Gabriel and Isabella pulled up in a moving truck, laughing about something as they stepped out. I had never seen Gabriel laugh like that. The heavy, dark aura that had surrounded him for the thirteen months I worked for him was completely gone. He looked ten years younger.
As they walked up the porch steps, Gabriel tossed me a small velvet box.
I caught it, confused. “Sir?”
“Open it,” Isabella smiled, taking Leo’s hand.
I opened the box. Inside was a set of keys and a deed to a small, beautiful cottage just down the road from the farmhouse.
“Mr. Moretti, I can’t accept this,” I stammered, tears springing to my eyes. “This is too much.”
“You saved my daughter’s life,” Gabriel said firmly. “You saved my wife. You are not my housekeeper anymore, Claire. I told you, you’re family. The cottage is yours. No rent. No mortgage. Just come up for Sunday dinners.”
I wiped my eyes, overwhelmed with gratitude. “Thank you.”
“No,” Isabella said, hugging me tightly. “Thank you.”
As we walked into the empty, sunlit farmhouse to begin unpacking, Lily suddenly stopped in the middle of the large living room. She looked around, her brow furrowed.
“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” Gabriel asked.
“We forgot something,” Lily said seriously.
May you like
She ran back out to the SUV and pulled something out of the trunk. She carried it back inside and set it gently in the center of the living room.
It was the cedar chest. The one from the attic. The one that held the six birthday letters.
