Chapter 12
The wail of police sirens grew deafening, echoing up the glass canyons of Manhattan.
Red and blue strobe lights painted the penthouse walls in flickering patterns.
Before Julian’s enforcers could decide whether to fire, the heavy penthouse doors were kicked off their hinges.
Federal marshals and heavily armed tactical officers flooded into the room, their weapons raised.
“Federal agents! Drop your weapons!” a voice roared over the chaos.
Julian’s men dropped their rifles instantly, raising their hands above their heads and dropping to their knees.
Two marshals rushed forward, grabbing Julian by the arms and hauling him up from the marble floor.
“Julian Vance, you’re under arrest for federal racketeering, money laundering, and conspiracy,” the lead agent declared, slapping heavy steel handcuffs onto Julian’s wrists.
Julian glared daggers at Emma as he was dragged toward the elevator.
“You haven’t won!” Julian screamed over the noise. “This isn’t over, Dante! You hear me? It’s never over!”
The elevator doors closed, cutting off his frantic shouting.
Silence settled over the penthouse, broken only by the hum of the electronic security systems.
Salvatore leaned heavily on his cane, letting out a long, weary sigh.
“Well,” the old man muttered, shaking his head. “That could have gone worse.”
Dante looked down at Emma, the hard, dangerous edge in his gray eyes completely gone, replaced by a quiet, profound warmth.
“You okay?” Dante asked softly.
Emma wiped a stray lock of hair from her forehead, letting out a shaky breath that sounded half like a laugh and half like a sob.
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“I think,” Emma said, offering a small, tired smile, “I need a very long vacation.”
“Or at least a very stiff drink,” Dante added, picking up Julian’s abandoned crystal glass of Scotch.
