Chapter 7 - The Confrontation in the East Wing
The grand foyer was eerily quiet, the marble floor stained with water and mud from Paulie's men. The security system was buzzing softly, its warning lights flashing yellow where the locks had been bypassed.
I moved through the corridors with swift, silent lethality, my weapon raised, checking every corner.
As I reached the grand staircase leading to the east wing, I heard raised voices echoing from my mother's bedroom.
"Sign the papers, Florence!" Paulie's rough, aggressive voice barked through the partially open door. "Sign the power of attorney transfer, or I swear to God I'll put a bullet through this illegitimate bastard's head right in front of you!"
I crept up to the doorway, peering through the gap.
The scene inside made my blood boil.
My mother was sitting in her wheelchair, her face pale with terror, holding a stack of legal documents Paulie had thrown into her lap. Two of Paulie's street captains stood near the windows, their heavy handguns drawn and aimed at the door.
In the center of the room stood Paulie Vance. He was holding Hannah by her hair, yanking her head back, pressing the cold steel barrel of a revolver directly against her throat.
Hannah's face was contorted in pain, tears streaming down her cheeks, but her green eyes burned with pure, unadulterated defiance. She wasn't begging. She wasn't screaming.
"Don't do it, Florence!" Hannah choked out, her voice raspy against the pressure of Paulie's gun. "Don't sign anything! Christopher will kill him!"
"Shut up, you little bitch!" Paulie growled, shoving the barrel harder against her neck. "Your father was a monster, and you're just a stain he left behind! Christopher is soft! He's trying to turn this family into a country club! I built this empire with Arthur, and I'm taking what's mine!"
"You didn't build anything, Paulie," my mother said, her voice shaking with rage as she looked up at him. "You were Arthur's lapdog. And you're a coward for holding a gun to a girl's head."
"Sign the papers!" Paulie roared, pulling the hammer of his revolver back with a loud, terrifying CLICK. "I'll count to three, Florence! One... two..."
"Three," I whispered from the doorway.
Before Paulie could react, I kicked the heavy oak door open with concussive force.
BANG! BANG!
My first two shots were instantaneous and precise. The two captains standing by the window dropped to the floor before they could even raise their weapons, struck cleanly through their chests.
Paulie shrieked in surprise, instinctively turning his head toward the door.
That split second of distraction was all Hannah needed.
Despite the gun pressed against her throat, Hannah leaned her head back and slammed her skull violently into Paulie's nose.
CRACK!
Paulie let out a bloody roar of pain, his grip slipping from her hair as blood erupted from his broken nose. Hannah didn't hesitate—she grabbed the heavy brass table lamp off the nightstand with both hands and swung it with all her strength, smashing it straight into the side of Paulie's face.
Paulie stumbled backward, disoriented, dropping his revolver onto the carpet.
I stepped across the room like a shadow, grabbed Paulie by his collar, and slammed him face-first into the heavy marble fireplace mantle. The impact echoed through the room like a crack of thunder.
Paulie collapsed onto his knees, covered in blood, groaning in agony.
I kicked his dropped revolver across the room, then pressed the hot barrel of my .45 directly against the back of his neck.
"Give me one reason why I shouldn't scatter your brains across this carpet right now, Paulie," I growled, my finger tightening over the trigger.
"Christopher... please..." Paulie gasped, spitting blood onto the rug, his former bravado completely shattered. "It was... it was business... Arthur would have done the same..."
"My father is dead," I whispered into his ear, my voice cold as the grave. "And you just put a gun to my sister's head in front of my mother."
I looked over at Hannah. She was standing by my mother's wheelchair, her hands trembling, her chest heaving as she held Florence tightly in her arms. Florence was crying, holding Hannah's face, checking her for injuries.
Hannah looked up at me through her tears, her green eyes wide. She didn't look away from the blood. She looked at me with absolute trust.
I took a deep breath, fighting down the lethal instinct that demanded I pull the trigger. If I killed Paulie in this room, in front of my dying mother and my sister, I would be no better than the monster who raised me.
I reversed my grip on the heavy pistol and brought the steel butt down hard against the side of Paulie's jaw.
Paulie went instantly limp, collapsing cold onto the floor.
At that moment, Frank and four of my loyal security guards burst into the room, their weapons drawn, breathless from running up the stairs.
"Boss!" Frank gasped, taking in the bloody scene. "Jesus Christ..."
"Take Paulie and his men out of my house," I commanded, wiping a streak of blood from my knuckles with a white handkerchief. "Deliver Paulie to the federal prosecutor's office downtown. Give them the evidence from Pier 42 and tell them Paulie Vance is handing them the entire illegal smuggling operation on a silver platter. Let the feds put him in a concrete cell for the rest of his miserable life."
"Understood, Boss," Frank said, grabbing Paulie by his arms and dragging him out of the room.
The room fell quiet again, save for the sound of rain beating against the windowpanes.
I set my weapon on the table, walked over to my mother's wheelchair, and dropped to my knees beside Hannah.
"Are you okay?" I asked gently, reaching out to touch Hannah's cheek where a faint red mark was forming from Paulie's grip.
Hannah looked at me, a soft, tearful smile breaking through her shock. She reached out and wrapped her arms around my neck, pulling me into a fierce, tight hug.
May you like
"I'm fine, Christopher," she whispered into my shoulder. "We're all fine."
My mother reached out her thin hands, wrapping them around both of our shoulders, pulling us close together. For the first time in thirty-two years, the dark, blood-stained halls of the Delacroix estate felt filled with love.
