Chapter 9 - THE BURNED CIGAR ON THE MAHOGANY TABLE
The VIP dining room was absolutely silent, save for the hum of the city far below the floor-to-ceiling windows.
The two guards holding my arms hesitated, their eyes darting between Luca’s assault rifle and Don Vincenzo’s stone-cold face.
“What are you talking about, Luca?” Dominic Bellini rasped through his bandages, genuine confusion bleeding through his panic. “Vincenzo didn't know anything! I paid your brother Vincent to keep it quiet!”
Luca didn't look at Dominic. He kept the rifle aimed squarely at the elderly Don at the head of the table.
“Vincent took your blackmail money, Dominic,” Luca said, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. “But he wasn't the only one pulling the strings. When Marco dragged Vincent to the warehouse yesterday, Vincent finally told me the whole truth.”
Luca stepped closer to the table, ignoring the dozen weapons now pointed at his back by the casino security.
“Vincent didn't just stumble upon the speeding ticket twenty-three years ago,” Luca continued. “Vincenzo gave it to him.”
My breath hitched. The entire hierarchy of the mafia, the decades of bloody wars and uneasy alliances, had been built on a single, orchestrated lie.
Don Vincenzo didn't flinch. He slowly set the speeding ticket down on the mahogany table. He picked up a thick cigar from an ashtray and took a long, deliberate drag.
“You’re a smart boy, Luca,” Vincenzo said, blowing a plume of gray smoke into the air. “You always were.”
“Why?” Luca demanded, the pain of his sister’s unavenged death cracking his iron composure. “Why give the ticket to my brother to blackmail Dominic, instead of giving it to my father for justice?”
“Because your father was weak,” Vincenzo answered simply, his voice devoid of any remorse. “If I gave your father the ticket, he would have killed Dominic. The Bellini family would have gone to war with your family. It would have bled the city dry. It was bad for business.”
Vincenzo leaned forward, resting his frail hands on the table.
“But by giving the ticket to your greedy, ambitious brother, I ensured peace,” Vincenzo explained coldly. “Vincent blackmailed Dominic. Dominic paid Vincent. And I controlled both of them because I knew their secrets. I kept the empire stable for twenty-three years.”
It was monstrous. He had treated the death of a young girl like a chess piece to secure his own power.
Dominic Bellini stared at Vincenzo, absolute realization dawning in his pale eyes. “You played me. You let me bleed my own casinos dry to pay off the Morettis, while you pulled the strings.”
“You killed a girl in a crosswalk because you were drunk, Dominic,” Vincenzo sneered. “You deserved to bleed.”
“Let the girl go,” Luca repeated, his finger tightening on the trigger of his rifle. “I’m not asking again, Vincenzo. Rachel walks out of here with me, or I blow you in half.”
Vincenzo sighed, taking another drag of his cigar. He looked at the dozen armed guards surrounding Luca.
“You are surrounded, Luca,” Vincenzo said softly. “You pull that trigger, my men will cut you down before my body hits the floor. And then they will kill the waitress. You have no leverage.”
“He doesn't need leverage,” a loud, gruff voice echoed from the back of the room.
The heavy mahogany doors at the main entrance of the VIP room swung open.
My heart leaped into my throat.
Walking into the room, flanked by Marco and a dozen heavily armed Moretti capos, was my father.
He was pale, leaning heavily on a cane, his left arm in a sling, but his eyes were burning with a fierce, protective fire I had never seen before.
“Dad!” I gasped, struggling against the guards holding me.
“Let my daughter go, Vincenzo,” my father said, his voice echoing with undeniable authority.
Vincenzo scoffed, looking at the wounded cook. “Or what, Robert? You’ll burn my toast?”
“No,” my father said calmly. He reached into his good pocket and pulled out a small, black detonator with a glowing red light. “Or I blow the support columns of this casino into the river.”
The room went dead silent.
Dominic Bellini let out a strangled gasp beneath his bandages.
“You’re bluffing,” Vincenzo said, his eyes narrowing, but a flicker of doubt finally crossed his ancient face.
“You forgot what I did for a living before your people ruined my life, Vincenzo,” my father said, leaning on his cane. “I wasn't just a cook. Before I met Sarah, I was a demolition engineer for the city. I know exactly where the load-bearing columns are in this building.”
My dad looked at Luca, a grim smile on his face.
“When Marco realized they changed the breaker codes for the blackout, he called me at the safehouse,” Dad explained. “I told him not to worry about the lights. I told him to bring me to the basement parking garage.”
He held up the detonator, his thumb resting heavily on the trigger button.
“There is enough C4 wired to the central columns in the parking garage to drop this entire VIP floor straight into the lobby,” my dad promised. “Let my daughter and Luca walk out of here, or we all go down together.”
Vincenzo stared at the detonator. He looked at my father’s eyes. He didn't see a bluff. He saw a man who had already lost twenty-three years of his life and had absolutely nothing left to lose.
Vincenzo slowly raised his hand.
“Let her go,” Vincenzo ordered his guards.
The two massive men immediately released my arms. I stumbled forward, gasping for breath, and ran straight into Luca’s free arm. He pulled me tight against his side, never lowering his rifle.
“We’re leaving,” Luca said, backing slowly toward the doors where my father and Marco were waiting.
“You can’t run forever, Luca,” Vincenzo warned, his voice a low threat. “The Commission will hunt you down for this.”
“The Commission is dead, Vincenzo,” Luca said coldly. “I sent the audio recording of this conversation to the FBI five minutes ago.”
Vincenzo’s face drained of color.
Luca had worn a wire. He hadn't come to kill them; he had come to expose them.
“Marco,” Luca ordered as we reached the doorway. “Barricade the doors. Don't let them out until the feds arrive.”
We slipped through the heavy mahogany doors, Marco and his men chaining the handles shut behind us.
“Did you really wire the building, Dad?” I whispered, grabbing my father’s good arm as we hurried toward the service elevator.
My dad looked at me, a brilliant, exhausted smile breaking across his pale face.
He held up the black detonator and pressed the red button.
Instead of an explosion, a small, tinny voice echoed from the device.
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“Welcome to Burger King, can I take your order?”
“It’s a drive-thru headset remote I found in Marco’s car,” Dad laughed softly. “Never underestimate a short-order cook, Rachel.”
