Chapter 8 - The Hostage
Panic erupted in the bank lobby. Tellers hit the silent alarms, cowering beneath their desks.
Carlo Bellini casually walked forward, his boots crunching on the shattered glass of the front doors. His three heavily armed men fanned out, training their rifles on us.
“Hand over the envelope, Luca,” Carlo demanded, holding out his hand.
Luca stood slightly in front of me, shielding my body with his own. His hand hovered over his concealed weapon, but drawing against three rifles in an open room was suicide.
“You murdered my mother,” Luca said, his voice carrying clearly across the silent, terrified room. “You murdered my father.”
Carlo chuckled, a dry, rasping sound.
“Your father was weak, Luca. He let a woman’s death turn him into a pacifist. He wanted to legitimize the family. He wanted to build hotels instead of ruling the streets. I did what had to be done to keep our power.”
“And you think the Commission will let you live when they see this?” Luca asked, patting the breast pocket of his jacket where the affidavit rested.
Carlo smiled thinly.
“The Commission will only see what I show them. They will see that Antonio’s unstable, erratic son kidnapped my daughter and tried to steal the family’s assets. And then they will see that you tragically died in a shootout resisting arrest.”
Carlo snapped his fingers.
“Kill him,” Carlo ordered his men. “Leave the girl. Vanessa wants to deal with the maid herself.”
The men raised their rifles.
I didn't think. I just reacted.
I reached into my purse, pulled out the heavy bronze paperweight Luca had used to smash the lockbox in the cellar—the one I had instinctively thrown into my bag before we fled the mansion—and hurled it with all my strength at the massive glass chandelier hanging directly above Carlo’s men.
The bronze weight struck the central glass fixture.
With a deafening crash, the thousand-pound chandelier snapped from its housing and plummeted toward the marble floor.
Carlo’s men dove out of the way as the massive structure shattered into a million pieces of razor-sharp crystal, sending a shockwave of glass across the lobby.
“Run!” Luca shouted, grabbing my hand.
He drew his gun in one fluid motion and fired three shots into the bank’s side windows, shattering the reinforced glass.
We threw ourselves through the broken window just as Carlo’s men recovered and sprayed the wall behind us with automatic fire.
We landed hard on the concrete sidewalk of the alleyway outside.
I scraped my knees and hands, but the adrenaline masked the pain.
“Up!” Luca hauled me to my feet.
We sprinted down the alley, the sounds of shouting and sirens echoing behind us.
We reached the stolen sedan, jumped in, and Luca floored it. We tore out of the alley, scraping the side of a dumpster, and sped into the chaotic morning traffic.
I was gasping for air, looking back to see if we were being followed.
“Did they hit you?” Luca asked, checking the rearview mirror frantically.
“No. I’m okay.”
He let out a shaky breath, his grip on the steering wheel white-knuckled.
“That was the bravest, stupidest thing I have ever seen anyone do,” he said, a faint smile breaking through his tension.
“I clean houses, Mr. Moretti,” I said, trying to steady my breathing. “I know how easily expensive things break.”
We drove for twenty minutes until we were safely lost in the labyrinth of the city’s industrial district.
Luca pulled into an abandoned warehouse and turned off the engine.
He pulled out his cell phone. It was a burner Matteo had given him.
He dialed a number and put it on speaker.
It rang twice before an old, gravelly voice answered.
“Speak.”
“Don Falcone,” Luca said respectfully. “It’s Luca Moretti.”
There was a pause. Falcone was the head of the Commission. The most powerful boss of the Five Families.
“You are a wanted man, Luca,” Falcone said slowly. “Carlo Bellini called a meeting of the Commission for noon today. He is asking for permission to wipe out your loyalists and absorb your territory.”
“Carlo Bellini is a traitor and a murderer,” Luca said firmly. “I have proof he assassinated my father, Antonio, and orchestrated the death of my mother. I have sworn affidavits and financial ledgers.”
The line went dead silent.
Killing a sitting boss was the ultimate violation of mafia law. If proven, the punishment was death by the Commission’s own hands.
“Where is this proof?” Falcone asked, his tone suddenly lethal.
“I will bring it to the meeting at noon,” Luca said. “But I need your word of safe passage into the room.”
“If you hold the truth, you have my word,” Falcone said. “If you are lying to save your own skin, you will not leave that room alive.”
The line clicked dead.
Luca looked at me.
“It’s over,” he said softly. “We just have to survive until noon.”
Suddenly, my own cell phone buzzed in my pocket.
I pulled it out.
It was a FaceTime call. From Mrs. Russo’s number.
I answered it, expecting to see her kind, wrinkled face.
Instead, Vanessa Bellini’s perfect, smiling face appeared on the screen.
My blood turned to ice.
“Hello, Emily,” Vanessa purred.
Behind her, I could see the rustic wooden walls of the safe house cabin.
And tied to a chair in the background, with a bruise on her cheek, was my mother. Mrs. Russo was kneeling on the floor beside her, a gun pointed at the back of her head by one of Bellini’s soldiers.
“Vanessa, don't you dare touch them!” I screamed at the phone.
Luca snatched the phone from my hand.
“If you hurt them, I will rip you apart,” Luca growled.
Vanessa laughed. “Oh, Luca. Always so dramatic. My father figured you had a safe house. It just took a little tracing of Matteo’s phone to find it.”
May you like
Her smile vanished, replaced by a cold, dead stare.
“Bring the ledger and the envelope to the old shipping docks on Pier 4 in exactly one hour,” Vanessa demanded. “Come alone. If you bring your men, or if you go to the Commission, I will shoot the old maid and the nurse in the head.”
