Chapter 8 - The Price of Redemption
Matteo paused, his finger resting lightly on the silver trigger, and looked up toward the grand staircase.
Dante was walking down the steps, holding the hand of a twelve-year-old boy. Julian had dark, unruly hair, wide hazel eyes that matched Sofia’s exactly, and was wearing an oversized blue sweater. He clutched a tiny, carved wooden airplane tightly in his left hand, looking around the marble hall with wide, terrified eyes.
When Julian saw his father pinned against the wall by a massive, bloody-handed man, the boy gasped, stopping on the third step.
Matteo looked at the boy. Then he looked at the terrified old man squirming beneath his barrel.
If Matteo pulled the trigger right now—in front of the boy—he would be no better than the monsters who had ruled this city for fifty years. He would be handing Julian a memory that would poison his soul forever, just as Marco had poisoned Sofia’s.
Slowly, deliberately, Matteo lowered the silver revolver, uncocking the hammer, and tucked it back into his suit jacket.
He didn't release his grip on Marco’s lapels. He dragged the old man down until Marco was kneeling in his own blood on the cold marble floor.
"You're going to live, Marco," Matteo said flatly, his voice carrying the finality of an executioner's blade. "Not for your sake. But because your daughter doesn't need any more blood on her conscience."
Marco coughed, wiping blood from his chin, staring up in disbelief. "Matteo... please..."
"Listen to me carefully," Matteo commanded, leaning down until his eyes were inches from Marco’s face. "As of this moment, you are resigning your seat on the Commission. You are transferring full ownership of the western docks, the shipping lines, and this estate to your son, Julian."
"What?!" Marco gasped. "He's twelve years old!"
"And I will act as his legal guardian and regent until he turns twenty-one," Matteo replied coldly. "You have until twelve o'clock noon to sign the transfer papers. If you are still in this city by sunset... I won't use a gun. I'll let my dockworkers handle you."
Matteo released the old man, letting him slump onto the marble floor like a sack of dirty clothes.
Matteo turned on his heel, walking over to the staircase where Julian stood trembling beside Dante. Matteo dropped to one knee on the marble step, bringing himself down to eye level with the twelve-year-old boy.
"Julian?" Matteo asked softly.
The boy nodded nervously, clutching his wooden Spitfire closer to his chest. "Are... are you Matteo?"
"I am," Matteo said gently. "Your sister is waiting for you at my house. She wants to show you her new room."
A sudden, brilliant light flickered in the boy’s eyes. "Sofia? Is she okay? Is she safe?"
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"She's safe," Matteo promised, holding out his large, warm hand. "Come on, kid. Let's go home."
Julian looked down at Matteo’s hand, then looked back at his bleeding father groveling on the floor. Without another second of hesitation, the boy reached out and placed his small hand into Matteo’s firm grip.
