Chapter 7 - The Woman on the TapeVincent woke to the smell of antiseptic.
This time she carried a flashlight between her teeth and a pistol she had no idea how to use.
Vincent hated both facts.
“You stay behind me,” he whispered.
She glared.
“You can barely crawl.”
“I can still shoot.”
“That isn’t comforting.”
Behind them, Michael muttered, “Nothing about tonight is comforting.”
Lucia remained outside with six loyal Moretti guards.
Vincent had insisted on a small team.
Dante expected force.
Vincent would give him silence.
They entered the basement.
The smell of flour almost broke Claire.
This had been home.
Birthday cakes.
Christmas mornings.
Her mother humming before sunrise.
Now blood stained the stairs.
Vincent noticed her staring.
“Don’t.”
She looked at him.
“Don’t what?”
“Remember this version.”
Her eyes softened unexpectedly.
“What version should I remember?”
“The one before us.”
She swallowed.
“Hard to do.”
“I know.”
They reached the kitchen.
Two gunmen stood near the front counter.
Vincent signaled Michael to stay.
Claire ignored him and moved beside Vincent.
He sighed silently.
They waited.
One gunman walked toward the refrigerator.
Vincent stepped from the shadows, struck the man in the throat, caught his weapon before it hit the floor, and lowered him silently.
Claire stared.
“You said you had an injured hip.”
“I do.”
“That seemed extremely mobile.”
“Adrenaline.”
The second guard turned.
Claire grabbed a metal mixing bowl and threw it.
It struck him directly in the face.
Vincent used the opening.
Two seconds later, the man was unconscious.
Vincent looked at Claire.
She shrugged.
“Kitchen experience.”
They found Rosa in the upstairs office.
Alive.
Very angry.
Michael cut her restraints.
Rosa immediately slapped him.
“What was that for?”
“Took you long enough.”
Claire hugged her.
Rosa grimaced.
“Careful. Think they cracked a rib.”
Vincent knelt beside her.
“Dante?”
“Back room.”
“Alone?”
“No. Tall man with gray hair.”
Vincent froze.
“Describe him.”
“Expensive coat. Walks like everybody owes him rent.”
Lucia entered through the rear door moments later.
Vincent told her.
Her face changed.
“No.”
Claire looked between them.
“Who?”
Lucia whispered, “Uncle Carlo.”
Vincent’s father’s younger brother.
The family banker.
The man who taught Vincent poker.
The man who carried Salvatore’s coffin.
Vincent felt old pieces rearranging.
Carlo managed Black Rock’s finances.
Carlo had access to Anne Bennett.
Carlo had access to Dante.
Carlo had spent thirty years insisting he wanted nothing to do with leadership.
Vincent whispered, “Of course.”
Claire asked, “You think he killed my mother?”
“I think we’re about to find out.”
The oven stood at the far end of the kitchen.
Old red brick.
Blackened door.
Claire touched it.
“My mom built this with Dad.”
Michael corrected gently.
“She designed it.”
Claire looked at him.
“You said Grandpa designed it.”
“I lied about many things.”
“Apparently.”
He accepted that.
Vincent searched the brickwork.
“Where?”
Michael pointed beneath the ash drawer.
“There’s a hollow cavity.”
Claire knelt.
One brick had a tiny crescent scratched into it.
Her mother’s mark.
Claire ran her thumb across it.
Then she pulled.
Nothing.
Michael handed her a knife.
She worked the mortar seam.
The brick came loose.
Inside was a metal box.
Vincent felt his pulse quicken.
Claire lifted it out.
The brass key from Dante’s video was unnecessary.
Michael had a duplicate hidden beneath his watchband.
Claire stared at him.
“You had the key the whole time?”
“Yes.”
She laughed once.
“Of course you did.”
He unlocked the box.
Inside lay three notebooks.
A cassette tape.
A flash drive.
And a photograph.
Claire picked up the photograph.
Her mother stood beside Salvatore Moretti.
Behind them was another man.
Carlo.
Claire whispered, “When was this?”
Michael looked stunned.
“I’ve never seen that.”
On the back, Anne had written:
IF SOMETHING HAPPENS TO ME, ASK SAL WHY HIS BROTHER WAS AT MINE 14.
Vincent closed his eyes.
Mine 14.
The largest illegal dumping site in Black Rock’s territory.
Carlo had sworn he never visited mining operations.
Lucia whispered, “That lying son of a—”
A voice came from the doorway.
“Language.”
Everyone turned.
Carlo Moretti stood with a pistol against Rosa’s back.
Two gunmen flanked him.
Dante stood behind them.
Claire gripped the metal box.
Carlo smiled.
He was seventy-two now.
Silver hair.
Perfect suit.
Calm eyes.
Vincent had once thought those eyes were kind.
“Hello, nephew.”
Vincent raised his gun.
“Let her go.”
Carlo smiled.
“You’ve changed.”
“Not enough.”
“Your father hoped you would.”
Lucia aimed at Dante.
“You betrayed us.”
Dante looked amused.
“I evolved.”
Vincent ignored him.
“Anne Bennett.”
Carlo glanced at Claire.
“Beautiful woman.”
Claire’s face hardened.
“You killed her.”
Carlo sighed.
“Everyone prefers simple stories.”
Vincent stepped forward.
“Then complicate it.”
Carlo pressed the gun harder into Rosa’s back.
“Your father was weak.”
Vincent’s jaw tightened.
“He wanted legitimacy.”
“He wanted peace.”
“Same disease.”
Carlo nodded toward the box.
“Black Rock was profitable.”
“You poisoned towns.”
“We disposed of waste.”
“People died.”
“People always die around industry.”
Claire moved before anyone expected.
She hurled a tray of flour into Carlo’s face.
The room exploded.
Rosa dropped.
Lucia fired.
Dante fired.
Vincent slammed Claire behind the oven as bullets tore through shelves.
Michael dragged Rosa into the pantry.
Vincent fired twice.
One gunman fell.
Lucia tackled Dante into the hallway.
Carlo stumbled backward, blinded by flour.
Claire reached for the metal box.
Vincent shouted, “Leave it!”
She ignored him.
Carlo saw her.
He raised his gun.
Vincent threw himself between them.
The gunshot deafened the room.
Vincent felt impact.
Heat.
Then cold.
He hit the floor.
Claire screamed.
“Vincent!”
He looked down.
Blood spread across his shirt near his ribs.
Claire dropped beside him.
“No. No, no, no.”
Vincent tried to breathe.
“Box.”
“What?”
“Get the box.”
“I’m not leaving you.”
“Claire.”
She pressed both hands against the wound.
“You are not dying in my bakery.”
Despite the pain, he almost smiled.
“That an order?”
“Yes.”
“Bossy.”
“Shut up.”
Across the kitchen, Carlo escaped through the side door.
Dante followed.
Lucia fired after them but missed.
She turned.
“Vincent!”
Claire’s hands were red.
Michael rushed over.
“He needs a hospital.”
Vincent grabbed Claire’s wrist.
“No hospitals.”
“You’ve been shot.”
“Dante owns police.”
“You’ll bleed out!”
Vincent’s vision blurred.
He looked at Claire.
“Your mother.”
“What?”
“The notebooks.”
“Stop.”
“Read them.”
“Vincent.”
“Find out what happened.”
Her eyes filled.
He tightened his grip.
“And Claire?”
She leaned closer.
“What?”
“The question.”
She shook her head, crying now.
“What question?”
He whispered, “You asked my name.”
“Yes.”
“Nobody had done that all day.”
“Vincent, stay with me.”
“You reminded me I had one.”
His hand loosened.
Claire stared at him.
Then his eyes closed.
For the first time since she had met him, Vincent Moretti looked powerless in a way no disguise could create.
Claire pressed harder against the wound.
“Don’t you dare.”
Michael grabbed towels.
Lucia shouted orders.
Sirens sounded somewhere far away.
Claire bent close to Vincent’s face.
“You don’t get to walk into my life, destroy my bakery, uncover my mother’s murder, and then die before explaining yourself.”
No response.
She slapped his cheek.
“Vincent.”
Nothing.
“Vincent!”
May you like
His body went limp.
And as blood soaked into the old bakery floor, Claire Bennett realized the man she had feared twenty-four hours earlier had become someone she was terrified to lose.
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