Chapter 5 - Blood on the Marble
The war was over in the streets, but the dying gasp of a cornered beast is always the most violent.
At two o'clock in the morning, the rain turned to heavy, wet snow that plastered itself against the stone gargoyles of the Bellori mansion.
Vincent sat in his library, wearing a dark turtleneck and wool trousers. His braces were off; his legs were propped on the leather ottoman, aching with a dull, throbbing heat that Dr. Vogel’s team in Zurich had confirmed by satellite phone was the unmistakable sign of deep motor-pathway recovery.
*“The cord was bruised, not severed,”* Vogel had told him an hour ago. *“With the intensive brace therapy and the neuro-stimulators your nurse applied, the pathways are bypassing the scar tissue. In six months, Mr. Bellori, you will walk without a cane.”*
Vincent had hung up the phone and looked across the desk at Nora, who was curling up on the leather sofa, fast asleep, still wearing the red silk gown, wrapped in an oversized cashmere blanket.
She looked small in the massive library. Innocent. The only pure thing in a house that had been built on extortion and fear.
Suddenly, the lights flickered.
Once.
Twice.
Then the library plunged into pitch darkness.
The heavy thump of the emergency diesel generator in the basement should have kicked in within three seconds.
It didn't.
Vincent was moving before his conscious mind even registered the threat. He slid off the desk chair, pulling the customized 9mm from the drawer, his hand moving to the hidden rifle rack beneath the mahogany paneling.
He pulled out a short-barreled tactical twelve-gauge shotgun.
Across the room, Nora sat bolt upright in the dark.
“Vincent?” she whispered, her voice laced with fear.
“Stay behind the sofa,” Vincent commanded, his voice a low, steady hiss. “Don't move. Don't make a sound.”
The mansion was completely silent, save for the wet slap of snow against the windows.
Then came the muffled, unmistakable *thwip-thwip* of suppressed gunshots from the front courtyard.
The gate guards were dead.
Marcus had escaped police custody. With fifty grand in cash and four fanatic loyalists who knew they were facing life in Stateville Penitentiary, he had come for his last throw of the dice: the murder of Vincent Bellori inside his own bed.
Vincent dragged himself to the library door.
He didn't have his braces on. His legs could not carry his full weight without them for more than twenty seconds.
He didn't need them.
Vincent Bellori had run these corridors for thirty years. He knew every sightline, every creaking floorboard, every shadow cast by the moonlight.
The heavy double doors of the main foyer burst open with a splintering crash.
Heavy combat boots moved across the marble.
“Find him!” Marcus’s voice snarled from the foyer—raspy, hysterical, high-pitched with adrenaline and madness. “He can’t run! He’s crawling on the floor like a dog! Find him and burn the house down with him inside it!”
Footsteps pounded up the south staircase toward the master bedroom.
Two men moved toward the library.
Vincent waited behind the heavy oak doorway. He rested his back against the jamb, the shotgun leveled at waist height.
The door swung inward.
A tactical flashlight beam sliced through the darkness, illuminating the green felt blotter and the empty wheelchair sitting by the window.
“He ain't here!” a man hissed.
“Check the closet—”
Vincent stepped out from behind the door.
He dropped to one knee, bracing the shotgun stock against his shoulder, and pulled the trigger.
*BOOM.*
The deafening roar of double-ought buckshot shattered the silence of the library. The first man was blown backward into the hallway, crashing through the glass display case of antique firearms.
The second man spun around, bringing his submachine gun up, but Vincent didn't hesitate. He racked the slide—a crisp, brutal sound—and fired again.
The hallway erupted in smoke, shredded drywall, and the agonizing screams of dying men.
From the foyer below, Marcus roared in fury. “He’s down here! In the library!”
Footsteps rushed down the mezzanine.
Vincent dropped the empty shotgun and brought up his 9mm pistol. He pulled himself up using the door handle, his teeth gritted against the tearing pain in his lower back, his left leg shaking violently beneath his weight.
He leaned against the archway of the library, looking out over the grand foyer.
Marcus stood at the foot of the double staircase, a gallon of gasoline in one hand and a Kalashnikov rifle in the other. His arm was wrapped in a bloody, makeshift sling, his face blackened with soot and rage.
Behind Marcus, creeping through the shattered front doors, was Camille.
She was soaking wet, her silver dress torn to ribbons, her mascara running down her hollow, terrified face like grease. She had followed Marcus because she had nowhere else to go; every bank account had been frozen, her father had locked the doors of his Lake Forest estate to her, and the police were searching for her across the Midwest.
“Vincent!” Marcus screamed, raising the rifle toward the library archway. “Come out and die like a man!”
Vincent stepped out onto the mezzanine landing.
The moonlight through the high arched window caught the steel of his pistol.
“I’m right here, Marcus,” Vincent said.
Marcus fired a burst of automatic fire. Plaster exploded around Vincent’s head, wood splinters flying like shrapnel.
Vincent didn't flinch. He adjusted his stance, planted his feet six inches apart, leveled his 9mm with both hands, and squeezed the trigger three times.
*Crack. Crack. Crack.*
The first shot hit Marcus in the right knee.
The second shot hit him in the hip.
The third took him directly through the center of his chest.
Marcus gasped, the rifle falling from his nerveless fingers. He stumbled backward, his back hitting the marble fountain in the center of the foyer, before sliding slowly down the carved stone into the cold, shallow water.
He twitched once.
Then he was still.
Camille looked at Marcus’s body. Then she looked up at Vincent, who stood on the mezzanine above her—tall, unyielding, smoking gun in hand, looking like the wrath of God in black wool.
She dropped to her knees on the bloody marble floor, screaming in pure, incoherent terror.
“Vincent! Vincent, don't shoot! Please! I didn't want to come! He made me! He said he’d kill me if I didn't help him!”
Vincent lowered the gun.
He didn't shoot her. Death was too quick, too clean, too honorable for Camille Whitmore.
Behind him, the heavy iron front gates rattled as four squad cars, followed by three black SUVs carrying Luca and forty armed family enforcers, tore up the driveway, their red and blue emergency lights painting the snow-covered grounds in brilliant shades of neon.
Luca burst through the shattered front doors, gun drawn, followed by a dozen men.
He took in the scene in three seconds: Marcus dead in the fountain, Camille weeping on her knees, and Vincent standing on the mezzanine, unassisted, looking down at his kingdom.
Luca lowered his weapon and bowed his head.
“Boss,” Luca said, his voice trembling with reverence. “The city is secured. The Commission has ratified your return. Every captain has sworn the oath.”
Vincent nodded slowly.
He turned toward the library.
Nora was standing in the doorway, wrapped in the cashmere blanket, her face pale, her dark eyes wide as she looked at the smoke, the blood, and the ruined foyer.
Vincent’s strength finally gave out.
His knees buckled.
He began to fall.
Nora moved with the speed of light. She didn't hesitate. She didn't look at the blood. She caught him beneath the arms, her small body taking his weight, her face pressing against his chest as they sank down together onto the deep, soft rug of the mezzanine landing.
“I’ve got you,” she whispered, her hands tangling in his dark hair, pulling his head down against her shoulder. “I’ve got you, Vincent. You’re safe. It’s over.”
Vincent buried his face in the crook of her neck, breathing in the scent of lemon soap, hot liniment, and clean skin.
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For the first time in eight months—for the first time in his entire brutal, blood-soaked life—the Don of Chicago closed his eyes and let someone else hold the line.
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