Chapter 9 - Blood on the Harbor
I woke up to the steady, rhythmic beeping of a heart monitor.
The smell of sterile antiseptic and clean sheets told me I was in a hospital.
A soft bandage was wrapped securely around my head, and soothing burn cream coated my blistered palms.
Sitting on the edge of my bed, holding my bandaged right hand, was Vincent.
His dark eyes were sunken with exhaustion, dark stubble lining his jaw, his immaculate suit replaced by a simple black sweater and trousers.
When he saw my eyes flutter open, he let out a shuddering breath and brought my knuckles to his lips.
"You're awake," he whispered, his voice trembling with raw relief.
"The girls?" was the first word that crossed my dry lips.
"They are completely unharmed," Vincent answered, brushing a stray lock of hair from my forehead with infinite tenderness.
"They are sleeping in the adjoining room under twenty-four-hour guard."
"The doctors stitched your head."
"You have a concussion, but you will recover fully."
I took a shallow breath, looking into his haunted eyes.
"Who sent them, Vincent?"
A chilling, lethal darkness washed over his features, erasing the warmth in an instant.
"The surviving mercenaries broke under interrogation within twenty minutes," Vincent replied, his tone as cold as an open grave.
"Alberto Rossi hired a private South American paramilitary cell."
"The plan was to abduct the girls and execute you on the highway, making it look like a botched mafia hit to permanently discredit my ability to protect my family."
"Where is Rossi now?" I asked, feeling the icy reality of our danger.
"He is currently at his private luxury yacht docked at the Calumet Harbor terminal," Vincent said, standing up to his full, terrifying height.
"He has a private helicopter fueled on the helipad, preparing to flee to a non-extradition country before the grand jury unseals the federal indictment tomorrow morning."
"He thinks he can buy his way out of this city."
Vincent reached into the pocket of his coat draped over the chair and pulled out his heavy weapon, checking the chamber with a crisp mechanical snap.
"Vincent, don't," I whispered, reaching out to touch his sleeve.
"If you murder a sitting senator in cold blood, you will spend the rest of your life in federal prison."
"The girls will lose their father."
"I will lose my husband."
Vincent stopped, his back to me, his broad shoulders trembling with the weight of an ancient vengeance.
"He tried to murder you, Evelyn," he growled.
"He tried to take the only woman who ever loved my children for who they are."
"I cannot let him walk away."
"He won't walk away," I said firmly, swinging my legs over the edge of the bed despite the dizziness rolling through my skull.
"You are going to take the federal prosecutors, the FBI tactical unit, and the media to that harbor."
"You are going to destroy him with the law he corrupted."
"And if he raises a weapon against the federal marshals, his blood will be on his own hands, not yours."
Vincent turned around, looking at me with a mixture of disbelief and profound admiration.
He walked back to the bed, took my battered face into his hands, and kissed me deeply on the lips.
"You have the mind of an empress, Evelyn Moretti," he whispered.
Two hours later, the Calumet Harbor was illuminated by hundreds of flashing blue and red emergency lights.
Alberto Rossi had just stepped onto the gangway of his hundred-foot yacht when sixty federal agents, flanked by thirty Moretti tactical vehicles, blocked every exit from the pier.
Media helicopters circled overhead, their spotlights pinning the corrupt senator against the cold steel of his vessel.
Vincent stepped out of the command vehicle, perfectly composed in a charcoal suit, with the United States Attorney for the Northern District of Illinois walking beside him.
"Alberto Rossi!" the federal prosecutor boomed through a megaphone across the freezing water.
"Drop your briefcase and step onto the dock with your hands raised!"
"A federal warrant has been issued for your arrest on charges of attempted murder, treason, child endangerment, and witness tampering!"
Rossi turned toward the blinding lights, his face contorted in wild, desperate madness.
He saw Vincent standing on the dock, unharmed, untouchable, flanked by the full might of the United States Department of Justice.
"You think you've won, Vincent?" Rossi screamed into the wind, drawing a chrome revolver from his coat.
"I built this city!"
"You are nothing but street trash!"
Before the senator could raise the barrel toward the agents, three federal sniper rounds shattered the night air.
Rossi fell backward onto the teak deck of his yacht, his weapon sliding harmlessly into the dark, freezing waters of Lake Michigan.
The Rossi empire, built on decades of political blackmail, blood money, and cruelty, crumbled into dust beneath the winter sky.
May you like
Vincent turned his back on the dead tyrant, stepping into his car to return to the only thing that mattered in this world:
The hospital room where his wife and daughters waited for him.
