Chapter 4 - THE KINGS POINT SECRET
The underground tunnel was freezing.
Water dripped from exposed steel conduits above our heads.
Dominic stepped directly in front of me, shielding my body with his own.
His gun remained raised, leveled at Vincent’s forehead.
“You sold our father’s ledger,” Dominic said.
His voice didn't shake.
It sounded like grinding stones.
Vincent laughed.
The sound was high, nervous, and hollow.
“Our father was a fool, Dominic!” Vincent sneered.
“He sat on eighty million dollars in hidden assets because he had some pathetic code of honor.”
“That ledger belongs to the Russo family,” Dominic said.
“It belongs to whoever has the guts to spend it!” Vincent yelled.
Gabriel Bianchi stepped forward, his leather shoes splashing in a puddle.
Gabriel was fifty, his silver hair combed back, his eyes calculating and calm.
“Lower your weapon, Dominic,” Gabriel said smoothly.
“You have no leverage here.”
“I have three bullets lined up for your skull, Gabriel,” Dominic replied.
“And my men have six rifles aimed at your back from the tunnel shadows,” Gabriel countered.
Red laser dots danced across Dominic’s chest.
Two more settled on my forehead.
My skin prickled with cold terror.
Gabriel turned his eyes toward me.
“Miss Harrison,” Gabriel said, tipping his umbrella slightly.
“I must thank you.”
“For what?” I asked through chattering teeth.
“For verifying the provenance of the ledger so quickly last night.”
Gabriel reached inside his coat and produced a folded piece of parchment.
“Without your appraisal stamp, the Swiss banks wouldn't release the trust.”
“What trust?” Dominic demanded.
His eyes flickered toward me for a split second.
Vincent chuckled, stepping beside Gabriel.
“He didn't tell her,” Vincent mocked.
“The great Dominic Russo kept his little bird in the dark.”
“Shut your mouth, Vincent,” Dominic warned.
“Tell her, Dominic!” Vincent shouted. “Tell her why you pulled her out of that Chelsea gallery eight months ago!”
My stomach dropped.
I looked at the back of Dominic’s neck.
The muscles were corded tight as steel cables.
“What is he talking about, Dominic?” I asked.
Dominic didn't answer.
Gabriel took another step forward.
“Eight months ago, a painting titled The Venetian Madonna appeared on the market,” Gabriel explained.
“It was stolen thirty years ago from the estate of Charles Harrison.”
My knees nearly buckled.
Charles Harrison was my grandfather.
He died in a mysterious fire in upstate New York when I was five years old.
“My grandfather was a painter,” I whispered.
“Your grandfather was the chief banker for the Five Families,” Gabriel corrected.
“And Dominic’s father set that fire to steal his fortune.”
The world spun around me.
The damp concrete tunnel seemed to tilt.
“No,” I breathed.
“Dominic didn't bring you into his penthouse because he loved your eyes, Mia,” Vincent spat.
“He brought you in because you were the only living heir who could sign the deed of release.”
“He was using you to legitimize ninety million dollars in stolen blood money!”
I stepped out from behind Dominic.
I looked at his face.
Dominic did not look at Vincent.
He did not look at Gabriel.
He looked at me.
His gray eyes were filled with an agony I had never seen in any man.
“Mia,” Dominic whispered.
“Is it true?” I asked.
My voice broke.
“Is that why you came to the gallery?”
“Yes,” Dominic said.
He didn't lie.
He didn't make an excuse.
“In the beginning, yes.”
A sharp metallic click echoed through the tunnel.
Vincent raised his revolver, aiming it directly at my face.
“Enough family therapy,” Vincent said.
“Give me the ledger, Mia. Or I put a bullet between your pretty eyes and take it off your corpse.”
Dominic moved before Vincent could finish the sentence.
He didn't shoot Vincent.
Dominic dove across the hood of the black sedan, grabbing the barrel of Vincent’s gun.
A shot exploded in the enclosed tunnel, deafening us.
The bullet sparked against the concrete ceiling.
At the exact same instant, the headlights of a massive commercial delivery truck roared from the opposite end of the tunnel.
The truck slammed into Gabriel’s armored SUV at sixty miles an hour.
Metal shrieked.
Glass shattered.
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Through the blinding steam of a ruptured radiator, Leo’s voice roared from the truck cab:
“Get in, Boss!”
