Chapter 12 - The Price of Loyalty|
By morning, the estate smelled of cordite, wet ashes, and rain. Over twenty federal marshals and Drake's private security cleared the bodies from the lawn.
Down in the wine cellar beneath the carriage house, a single man was tied to a wooden chair.
Vance. The head of Drake Harbor's logistics terminal. The man who had taken two million dollars from Marcus Moretti to disable the estate’s security grid and sign off on the fake manifests that had killed my mother.
Nathan sat on an upturned wooden crate ten feet away, his right arm bound in a black sling, his dark coat draped over his shoulders. His face was deathly calm, but the air around him crackled with executioner’s energy.
Cole stood behind the chair with a heavy steel crowbar.
"Nathan, please!" Vance sobbed, his nose broken, blood dripping onto his designer shirt. "Moretti had my family! He said he’d butcher my kids if I didn't give him the codes! I had no choice!"
"You always had a choice, Vance," Nathan said softly. "You could have come to me. I would have protected your family. Instead, you sold my sister’s memory. You sold Bella’s mother. And you brought wolves into my home."
Nathan stood up slowly. He reached into his coat with his left hand, pulling out a silenced automatic pistol. He walked toward Vance, raising the barrel until it rested against the center of the traitor's forehead.
"Nathan, wait."
Nathan paused. He didn't turn around, but he knew I had entered the cellar. Mrs. Gable had tried to keep me upstairs, but I had refused to hide.
"Bella, go back to the house," Nathan said, his voice flat. "You don't need this stain on your hands."
I walked down the stone steps until I stood beside him. I looked at Vance—the pathetic, weeping coward who had signed my mother's death warrant for a wire transfer.
"If you shoot him in this basement, Nathan, you prove Moretti right," I said, my voice echoing off the stone arches. "You remain the monster Chicago thinks you are. You stay in the mud with men who trade lives for territory."
Nathan's jaw tightened. "He tried to murder you last night."
"And he failed," I answered, placing my hand over Nathan's gun hand, gently lowering the barrel. "We have the original manifests now. We have Moretti’s bank transfers to Vance's Cayman accounts. The federal prosecutor’s office has been waiting ten years to bring down Moretti’s entire syndicate. Hand Vance to the Feds. Give them the evidence. Strip Moretti of his empire, his money, and his freedom before the whole world."
Nathan looked at me, a profound conflict raging in his dark eyes. For thirty-seven years, violence was the only language he had ever trusted. Blood paid for blood.
"And what about Moretti?" Nathan whispered. "The law won't touch him fast enough. He’s liquidating his assets at the docks right now to flee the country."
"Let the law take his name," I said softly, my eyes locking with his. "And you take his future."
Nathan stared at me for a long, breathless moment. Then, he lowered the weapon completely and turned to Cole.
"Call the Federal Bureau of Investigation," Nathan commanded. "Give them Vance. Give them the unredacted oncology manifests. Tell Special Agent Harris that Drake Harbor is handing them the entire Moretti crime family on a silver platter."
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Vance slumped in his chair, sobbing in disbelief.
Nathan grabbed his coat with his good hand, turning toward the stairs. "Cole, mobilize the tactical convoy. Moretti is at Pier 4 loading his escape freighter. It ends today."
