Chapter 9 - The Final Stand
My blood ran completely cold.
The snub-nosed revolver Ricardo had given me felt heavy and freezing in my right hand. I shoved Matteo behind my legs, backing up into the dark entryway of the panic room, raising the gun with two shaking hands, pointing it directly at Vance’s chest.
"Don't take another step," I gasped out, my voice trembling, but my fingers locked around the trigger. "I'll kill you."
Vance let out a low, mocking laugh, stepping casually into the office, his silenced pistol held loosely at his side. He didn't look afraid. He looked like a hunter who had finally cornered a rabbit after a three-year chase.
"You're a nurse, sweetie," Vance sneered, taking another slow, deliberate step toward me. "You don't know how to shoot a man. You ran from Philadelphia because you couldn't stand the sight of blood. Do you really think you can pull that trigger?"
"Try me," I whispered, my vision blurring with tears of pure rage and fear.
"I have to admit, I was impressed when I saw you at the Plaza tonight," Vance continued, his eyes sliding over my emerald dress, then down to the small child hiding behind my skirt. "You managed to climb all the way into Ricardo Moretti’s bed. Beautiful, clever little witness. But Romanov paid me five million dollars to bring your head back to Brooklyn to ensure you never take a witness stand."
He raised his silenced pistol, aiming it directly at my forehead. "Say goodbye, Elizabeth."
BANG!
A deafening explosion rocked the room.
It didn't come from Vance’s gun. It didn't come from mine.
A heavy, high-caliber bullet shattered the mahogany doorframe behind Vance, tearing through his right shoulder with terrifying force.
Vance shrieked in agony, his silenced pistol flying from his hand as he was thrown sideways against the grand desk, blood spraying across the leather surface.
Standing in the doorway of the office, framed by smoke and dust, was Ricardo.
He looked like he had walked straight out of hell. His white shirt was torn, soaked with dark blood from a shallow graze on his arm, his face smudged with gunpowder and sweat. In his hand, he held a massive silver automatic pistol, smoke curling slowly from the barrel.
"You made a mistake coming into my house, Vance," Ricardo said, his voice dropping into a register so dark it sounded like grinding stone.
Vance gasped, clutching his shattered shoulder, scrambling backward against the desk, his eyes wide with sudden, sickening terror. "Moretti... wait! Romanov hired me! It was business! Just business!"
Ricardo walked slowly into the room, his heavy leather shoes clicking against the hardwood floor. He didn't hurry. He didn't yell. He stepped between Vance and my body, completely blocking me from the wounded killer.
"You threatened my fiancée," Ricardo said softly, stopping three feet away from the bleeding man. "You terrified my son. There is no business in that, Vance. There is only death."
"Ricardo, please!" Vance screamed, reaching frantically with his left hand for the pistol lying on the floor. "I can give you Romanov! I can give you the whole Brooklyn network—"
Ricardo didn't let him finish the sentence.
He raised his arm, pointed the heavy barrel directly between Vance’s eyes, and pulled the trigger.
BANG!
The room went instantly quiet.
Vance’s body slumped sideways onto the floor, motionless, the black viper tattoo on his wrist now smeared with his own blood.
The silence that followed was suffocating.
Ricardo stood over the dead man for a long moment, his chest heaving, his dark hair falling over his forehead. Then, slowly, he turned around to face us.
The terrifying monster who had just executed a man in cold blood vanished. In his place stood a man whose amber eyes were filled with a desperate, overwhelming concern as he looked at me and his son.
He dropped his gun onto the desk, stepping forward, his hands reaching out toward us.
"Maya," he whispered, his voice rough and broken. "Are you hurt?"
I dropped the revolver onto the floor. I didn't care about the blood. I didn't care about the body lying on the floor. I didn't care about the rules, the money, or the fake engagement.
I threw my arms around Ricardo’s neck, burying my face into his blood-stained shirt, weeping uncontrollably.
Ricardo wrapped his massive arms around me, pulling me flush against his hard chest, holding me so tight I could barely draw a breath. He rested his cheek against my hair, his body trembling with the lingering adrenaline of the fight.
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Beside us, little Matteo reached up, grabbing both of our legs, hugging us together.
Ricardo looked down at his son, then at me, holding us both in his iron embrace as the morning light began to break through the broken windows of the estate.
