Chapter 4 - The Man in the Catering Coat
The sound of shattering safety glass echoed from the east entrance of St. Anne’s Children’s Hospital as Julian’s tactical team formed a protective wedge around Elliot.
“Daniel, take the service lift to the subterranean loading dock,” Julian commanded, his voice steady despite the chaos erupting behind them. “Put Elliot in the armored transport with two men. I want him moved to the downtown vault immediately.”
“Boss, you can’t stay behind,” Daniel protested, checking the magazine of his weapon. “Michael brought at least ten contract shooters. This isn't a family dispute anymore; this is an execution squad.”
“I’m not staying behind to fight his mercenaries,” Julian said coldly. “I’m cutting off his escape.”
Julian handed Elliot to Daniel, meeting the boy’s dark eyes. “You’re a Ricci. Don't look down. Don't show them fear. I’ll see you in two hours.”
The boy nodded once, gripping the silver pocket watch against his chest.
Julian turned and sprinted down the emergency stairwell toward the ground level, slipping through the fire exit into the torrential rain. The humid Florida air was thick with the smell of gasoline and burning tires.
In the shadows of the hospital’s maintenance lot, fifty yards away from the firefight raging at the main lobby, a sleek silver Audi sedan was idling quietly with its headlights extinguished. A man in a drenched black catering coat was frantically loading duffel bags into the trunk.
It wasn't Michael.
It was Harold Kent, the mansion’s operations manager who had vanished before midnight with the erased security hard drives.
Julian moved through the downpour like a wraith. His polished Italian dress shoes made no sound against the wet grass. By the time Harold slammed the trunk shut and turned to scramble into the driver’s seat, the cold, heavy barrel of Julian’s Kimber .45 was pressed firmly against the bridge of his nose.
Harold froze, his hands instantly flying into the air. Water poured down his trembling, pale face, plastering his thinning hair to his forehead.
“Julian... Mr. Ricci... please,” Harold stammered, his teeth chattering in terror. “Don’t kill me. I was forced! They threatened my family!”
“Get against the car,” Julian ordered softly.
Harold obeyed instantly, pressing his chest against the rain-slicked metal of the Audi, sobbing. Julian patted him down, stripping a Glock 19 from his waistband and a burner phone from his pocket, tossing both into the muddy puddle below.
Julian grabbed Harold by the collar of his catering coat, hauling him around and slamming him against the driver’s door with enough force to rattle the window.
“The erased footage,” Julian said, his voice terrifyingly calm amid the distant crackle of gunfire. “Why did you wipe the six minutes from Camera Four?”
“Michael... Michael told me to!” Harold choked out, clutching Julian’s wrists. “He promised me half a million dollars wire-transferred to an account in the Caymans. He said all I had to do was wipe the camera covering the drinks cart between 8:14 and 8:20 p.m.”
“What was in the vial Michael gave Victoria?”
“It was a neurotoxin! But it wasn't for the maid!” Harold screamed over the roar of thunder. “I swear to God, Julian, the maid was never supposed to drink it! Victoria was supposed to slip the drops into *your* celebratory whiskey sour right after you announced the engagement!”
Julian’s eyes narrowed into twin points of black ice. “Explain.”
“The poison acts slowly,” Harold wept, tears mingling with the rain on his cheeks. “It induces a massive ischemic stroke within three to four hours. You were supposed to sign the trust documents at midnight, celebrate with the drink, and collapse in your bed by 3:00 a.m. The stroke would look entirely natural—high blood pressure, stress, hereditary heart failure, just like your father!”
“Then why did Allison collapse?”
“She wasn't supposed to be on that floor!” Harold cried. “Allison was assigned to the coat check in the west foyer! But she saw Victoria and Michael in the east wing earlier that day, and Victoria panicked. When Allison came into the pantry to get a glass of water, Victoria thought Allison was spying on them. She thought Allison was going to tell you about the silver lockbox. Victoria got sloppy... she tried to poison Allison’s water right there to incapacitate her before she could talk to you!”
Julian stared at the trembling man. The sheer incompetence of Victoria’s malice had unraveled the entire conspiracy. If Allison hadn't collapsed on the ballroom floor, Julian would have drank from his own glass an hour later.
He would already be dying.
Julian’s burner phone vibrated against his ribs. He pulled it out with one hand, keeping the Kimber leveled at Harold’s chest with the other.
“Speak,” Julian answered.
“Boss, Elliot is secure,” Daniel’s voice came through, clear and steady. “The shooters at the hospital have been neutralized. Four dead, two captured alive. They’re singing already. Michael wasn't even at the hospital.”
“Where is he?” Julian asked.
“He retreated to the safehouse penthouse on Bayshore Boulevard,” Daniel answered. “Victoria’s with him. She managed to slip through the perimeter during the blackout at your estate. Michael had a backup team extract her from the grounds.”
Julian looked down at Harold Kent, who was weeping in the rain, begging for mercy.
“Harold,” Julian said smoothly.
“Y-yes, Mr. Ricci?”
“You’re going to drive this car to the police precinct downtown. You’re going to walk into the homicide division, lay those hard drives on the desk of Detective Miller, and confess to conspiracy to commit murder.”
Harold blinked in disbelief. “You’re... you’re not going to kill me?”
Julian lowered the gun, his expression completely devoid of mercy. “If you go to the police, you get twenty years in federal prison. If you don't, I let Michael know you gave up his location. Which would you prefer?”
Harold scrambled for the driver’s door, tumbling into the seat without looking back, slamming the door, and speeding out of the parking lot into the night.
Julian stood in the downpour for a moment, letting the cold water wash the soot and blood from his hands. Then he dialed Daniel back.
May you like
“Mobilize the primary strike team,” Julian ordered, his voice dropping into the deadly cadence of a Mafia boss about to settle an empire’s debt. “Tell them we’re going to Bayshore Boulevard. My brother and my fiancée are waiting for me.”
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