Chapter 8 - The Return to the Room
By nine o'clock that morning, the street was filled with the silent, flashing red lights of unmarked federal vehicles.
The rain had stopped, leaving the pavement slick and black, reflecting the gray sky. Two body bags had been loaded into the back of a city van, and Marco Bellini sat in the rear of an armored sedan, his hands cuffed to his waist belt, staring blankly at the floorboards as three federal agents sat around him.
The front hall of the townhouse was filled with the smell of wet wool, cordite, and broken glass.
I walked up the granite steps carrying Sophie. She was exhausted, her small head resting heavy on my shoulder, Walter the rabbit tucked firmly under her arm. Julian walked three paces behind us, his oilskin coat removed, revealing his simple grey sweater and the dark leather brace supporting his scarred arm.
Vincent was standing near the front door, speaking quietly to a tall man in a navy suit carrying a leather briefcase.
When the front door opened and Vincent turned, his eyes didn't land on me. They didn't land on the federal agents.
They landed on his brother.
The two men stood ten feet apart in the ruined foyer of the house where they had grown up.
Vincent didn't speak. He didn't move. The man who had faced automatic gunfire without stepping back looked suddenly fragile, his broad shoulders sinking as if a mountain had been lifted from his back.
Julian took one step forward, his left foot dragging slightly on the hardwood floor.
"You look terrible, Vince," Julian said softly, his raspy voice filling the quiet hall.
Vincent let out a long, shuddering breath. He crossed the distance between them in two wide strides and wrapped his arms around his younger brother, pulling him into a hard, desperate embrace that threatened to crush the smaller man.
Julian winced slightly as his scarred shoulder took the weight, but he didn't pull away. He brought his good right arm up and clapped Vincent heavily on the back.
"I thought you were in the river," Vincent choked out, his face buried in Julian’s sweater. "I went to the impound lot, Jules. I saw the car."
"I know," Julian whispered. "I was in the ambulance behind you. I had to let you think it, Vince. If you knew I was alive, you wouldn't have let Marco expose himself. You would have covered for me like you always did."
Vincent pulled back, his hands resting on Julian’s shoulders, his dark eyes scanning the silver scars on his brother’s face.
"Your hand?" Vincent asked quietly.
"Done," Julian said simply. "I can hit three notes if I try hard enough. But that’s about it."
Vincent looked over Julian’s shoulder at me.
I stood near the bottom of the staircase, holding my daughter, my apron dirty with cellar dust, my hair damp from the tunnel air.
Vincent walked over to us. He didn't stop three feet away as he usually did when maintaining his professional distance. He stepped directly into my personal space, reached out one large, warm hand, and placed it gently over mine where I held Sophie’s back.
"Thank you, Clara," he said. His voice was no longer that of a boss speaking to a servant. It was deep, grounded, and thick with an emotion he no longer tried to hide.
"I didn't do anything, Mr. Marlo," I whispered. "Sophie found the key."
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Vincent looked down at my daughter. She opened one dark eye, looked at his broad face, and reached out one small, sticky finger to touch the charcoal lapel of his jacket.
"You can call me Vincent," he said softly.
