Chapter 10 - Broken Engagement
Luca didn't drop his weapon.
He didn't even flinch.
“You always were predictable, Vanessa.”
Vanessa took two steps forward.
The muzzle of her silver pistol remained level with my eyes.
“Put the gun on the glass table, Luca!” she screeched.
“Right now! Or she dies!”
Luca slowly bent his knees.
He placed his heavy Glock on the reflective surface of the coffee table.
He slid it forward with the tip of his boot.
The metal scraped loudly across the glass.
“There,” Luca said, straightening up.
“Now let her leave.”
Vincent chuckled from his leather chair.
“Nobody leaves this room alive, Luca.”
Vincent reached into his coat and pulled out a gold cigarette lighter.
He clicked it open.
“The Drake Hotel is burning from the basement up.”
“By the time the fire department arrives, Falcone, Carmine, and the rest of the Commission will be ashes.”
Vincent took a long drag from a thin cigar.
“The news will report a tragic turf war between the Morettis and the rest of the families.”
“And my daughter will emerge from the ashes to inherit the unified empire.”
“You're insane,” I whispered.
“The other families have armies in New York, Detroit, Philadelphia!”
“They will know you did this!”
Vincent looked at me with cold amusement.
“Dead men don't testify, little clockmaker.”
He glanced at the three tactical guards.
“Shoot the boy in the knees. Let him watch while Vanessa puts a bullet through his sister’s head.”
The guard on the right raised his rifle toward Luca’s legs.
Luca looked directly into the guard’s eyes.
“Echo three, protocol seven,” Luca said quietly.
The guard froze.
Vanessa turned her head sharply.
“What did you say?”
The guard didn't answer.
Instead, he pivoted his barrel forty-five degrees to the left.
Crack.
A single suppressed shot took out the second guard.
The third guard dropped instantly as the first operative fired a double-tap into his chest.
Vanessa shrieked in terror, stumbling backward.
The surviving operative lowered his weapon and gave a crisp nod to Luca.
“Asset secured, boss.”
Luca stepped forward, picking up his Glock from the glass table with a smooth, effortless motion.
“You bought half my men with your father’s stolen money, Vanessa,” Luca said coldly.
“You forgot that I wrote the loyalty protocols for the other half.”
Vincent dropped his cigar onto the carpet.
His face turned purple with rage.
He reached for the silver handle of his cane.
“Don't touch it, Vincent,” Luca warned, raising his barrel.
Vincent ignored him.
He wrenched the silver handle of the cane backward.
A razor-sharp eighteen-inch steel blade slid free from the hollow shaft.
Despite his age, Vincent lunged forward with terrifying speed.
He aimed the blade directly at Luca’s wounded flank.
Luca didn't shoot.
He stepped inside the arc of the blade.
His left hand caught Vincent’s wrist in an iron vise.
The bone snapped with a sickening crack.
Vincent screamed, dropping the blade.
Luca grabbed the older man by the lapels and slammed him violently onto the glass desk.
The heavy tempered glass shattered under the impact.
Vincent lay amid the shards, gasping for breath, clutching his broken wrist.
Luca pressed the cold barrel of his weapon against Vincent’s temple.
“Thirty-five years,” Luca whispered.
His voice was terrifyingly calm.
“Thirty-five years you made me live in the house of the man who stole me.”
“You made me call my mother’s murderer 'uncle.'”
“Luca! Please!” Vanessa cried out, falling to her knees.
Tears streamed down her makeup-stained cheeks.
She threw her gun onto the floor.
“I loved you! I really loved you!”
Luca didn't even look at her.
“You loved the empire you thought I owned.”
“You tried to burn my mother’s watch because you knew what it contained.”
Luca looked down at Vincent.
“Where are the original birth records, Vincent?”
Vincent spat blood onto Luca’s shoes.
“Go to hell, bastard.”
I stepped forward toward the modern bookcase behind the desk.
I noticed the alignment of the wooden molding.
It was off by two millimeters.
A clockmaker’s eye never misses an uneven gap.
I pressed the corner of the third shelf.
A small hidden compartment popped open with a quiet mechanical click.
Inside lay an old leather-bound ledger and a certified original birth certificate from the State of Wisconsin.
Dated October 17, 1988.
Child's name: Luca Sullivan.
Father: Thomas Sullivan.
Mother: Clara Sullivan.
I pulled the certificate out.
“Luca,” I whispered, holding it up.
“It's here.”
Luca looked at the paper in my hands.
For the first time in his life, his identity was real.
Not an alias.
Not a stolen title.
Not a mafia myth.
He was my brother.
Vincent looked up from the broken glass, his eyes full of venom.
“It doesn't matter what that paper says!” Vincent gasped.
“You killed twenty men tonight! The federal task force has this building surrounded!”
“You will spend the rest of your life in a supermax cage!”
Sirens began wailing in the street forty floors below.
Dozens of them.
Red and blue lights reflected off the clouds outside the shattered balcony.
The elevator chimes rang.
The elevator doors opened.
Daniel stepped into the penthouse, accompanied by six federal agents in tactical vests with FBI windbreakers.
Behind them walked Don Falcone, his arm in a sling.
Vanessa gasped.
Vincent stared in disbelief.
“Falcone... what have you done?” Vincent wheezed.
Falcone walked slowly into the room, leaning on a wooden cane.
“The Commission does not tolerate traitors who murder their own elders, Vincent,” Falcone said coldly.
“And we certainly don't tolerate men who bring the feds to our doorstep.”
Falcone looked at the lead FBI agent.
“He's all yours, Agent Miller.”
Agent Miller stepped forward, pulling a pair of steel handcuffs from his belt.
“Vincent Bellini, you are under arrest for federal racketeering, conspiracy to commit murder, and the 1988 kidnapping of Luca Sullivan.”
The agent looked at Vanessa.
“You too, Miss Bellini. Hands behind your back.”
Vanessa began sobbing hysterically as the cold steel cuffs locked around her wrists.
Luca slowly lowered his weapon.
He looked at Don Falcone.
“And what about me, Falcone?”
Falcone looked at the man who had ruled Chicago with an iron fist.
He looked at the broken signet ring on the floor downstairs.
He looked at the birth certificate in my hands.
“As far as the Commission is concerned...” Falcone said slowly, “...Luca Moretti died tonight in the fire at the Drake Hotel.”
“His empire is dissolved.”
“His territory will be divided among the surviving families.”
Falcone reached out and touched Luca’s shoulder.
“Thomas Sullivan was an honest man, Luca.”
“Go be his son.”
Luca didn't say a word.
He turned toward me.
The exhaustion finally caught up with his massive frame.
His knees buckled.
I dropped the papers and caught him before he hit the shattered glass.
“Luca!”
He leaned heavily against my shoulder, his breathing shallow and ragged.
He looked down into my eyes.
May you like
A faint, tired smile touched his lips.
“Take me home, Emma.”
