Chapter 7 - The Stand-Off
I instinctively pulled Leo behind me, shielding him.
Luca didn’t flinch. He carefully folded his father’s letter, slipped it into his jacket, and walked out of the bedroom.
I peered out into the hallway.
Michael was standing in the living room. He wasn’t alone. Three large men in dark suits stood behind him.
“I told security to hold you,” Luca said calmly.
“Security works for the one who signs their checks,” Michael sneered. “Vanessa made a few calls. Now, you’re going to walk out of this house, get back in your car, and go home.”
“Or what?”
Michael pulled a sleek black handgun from his coat.
Teresa screamed.
“Michael! Are you out of your mind? Put that away!” she cried out.
“Shut up, Mom!” Michael yelled, his composure shattering. “Do you know what it’s like to work for twenty years, building the business, only to find out the old man gave half of it to a bastard child who doesn’t even know his last name?”
“He knows his name,” Luca said. “His name is Leo Moretti. And he is my son.”
“Not if he’s not around to claim it,” Michael said, pointing the gun down the hallway toward the bedroom.
I backed into the room, locking the flimsy wooden door. I pushed a heavy dresser against it, my heart pounding against my ribs.
“Hannah, what’s happening?” Sarah panicked, trying to sit up.
“Stay down,” I urged her. I picked Leo up and put him in the closet, throwing the winter coats over him. “Don’t make a sound, Leo.”
Outside, I heard Luca’s voice, cold as ice.
“If you pull that trigger, Michael, you won’t make it out of this room. You really think Dad didn’t leave a failsafe?”
“Dad is dead!” Michael shouted.
“But his friends aren’t,” an unfamiliar, gravelly voice echoed from the front porch.
I peeked through the window blinds.
An old, black Lincoln Town Car had pulled up onto the lawn. Standing on the porch was a man in his sixties, leaning heavily on a wooden cane. He wore a gray fedora and a long trench coat.
Behind him stood half a dozen men who looked nothing like corporate security. They looked like the old neighborhood.
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“Hello, Michael,” the old man said, stepping into the doorway.
“Uncle Carlo,” Michael whispered, the gun wavering in his hand.
