Chapter 5 - Bloodline Secrets
The penthouse atop the 32-story tower on Bayshore Boulevard offered an unobstructed, panoramic view of the storm churning across Tampa Bay. Inside, however, the atmosphere was thick with bile, panic, and burning rage.
Michael Ricci stood by the floor-to-ceiling glass, his tailored jacket discarded, his dress shirt unbuttoned to the chest, revealing a heavy gold chain. He downed a tumbler of neat Scotch, his hand shaking so violently that the ice cubes rattled like dice.
“You idiot!” Michael roared, turning violently on Victoria. “You utter, incompetent moron!”
Victoria sat huddled on the white leather sofa, wrapped in a damp cashmere blanket. The elegance of her burgundy silk dress was ruined, covered in grease and dirt from her escape through the estate’s gardens. Her mascara was smeared down her cheeks, but her eyes burned with defensive venom.
“Don't you dare raise your voice to me, Michael!” she spat back, her voice shrill. “I followed your plan! You’re the one who hired amateur street thugs who couldn't even snatch a sick fourteen-year-old boy from an empty pediatric clinic!”
“The clinic wasn't empty!” Michael shouted, smashing his crystal tumbler against the marble fireplace. Glass shattered into a hundred glittering shards. “Julian’s personal guard was there! Do you understand what that means? It means Julian already knows about Elliot! He knows about the hospital, he knows about Elena Vane, and he knows the trust was forged!”
Victoria pulled the blanket tighter around her shoulders, her breath coming in ragged gasps. “It doesn't matter what he knows if the paperwork can’t be challenged. The forged signature of your father from seven years ago was notarized by Harold Kent. The probate court in Tallahassee has the official seal—”
“Harold is gone!” Michael screamed, stepping toward her, his face flushed a furious, vein-popping red. “His phone went dark twenty minutes ago! His tracking beacon pinged at the downtown police precinct! Harold turned state’s evidence, Victoria! We are looking at life in a maximum-security penitentiary for capital murder!”
Victoria shrank back into the cushions, her arrogance finally cracking under the sheer weight of reality. “What... what about the Colombian syndicate? You said they would protect us if we gave them the shipping manifests—”
“The Colombians don't protect losers!” Michael yelled. He grabbed a heavy leather duffel bag from the dining table, unzipping it to reveal stacks of hundred-dollar bills and three fraudulent European passports. “The charter flight out of Peter O. Knight Airport leaves in forty-five minutes. We take whatever cash is in this safe and we run to Costa Rica. If we stay here, Julian won't call the police. Julian will put both of us in fifty-gallon plastic drums and drop us twenty miles out in the Gulf of Mexico.”
Suddenly, the electronic chime of the private elevator rang through the quiet penthouse.
Both of them froze.
Michael whipped out a suppressed Sig Sauer from his waistband, his knuckles white, his breath caught in his throat. Victoria pressed herself flat against the sofa, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.
The heavy brushed-steel doors of the elevator slid open with a soft, mechanical hiss.
Standing in the elevator cab was not Julian Ricci.
It was Allison Reed.
She was pale, wearing an oversized hospital fleece over her scrubs, but her posture was rigid, her chin lifted high. Flanking her on either side were two of Julian’s most ruthless enforcers, their assault rifles held across their chests, red laser sights painting the center of Michael’s chest.
“You,” Victoria whispered, her voice trembling in disbelief. “You should be in a coma.”
“Your poison was cheap, Victoria,” Allison said, her voice ringing through the cavernous penthouse with cold clarity. “Just like your diamonds.”
Michael raised his weapon, his finger tightening on the trigger, but before he could align his sights, the floor-to-ceiling glass wall behind him shattered in an explosion of crystalline shards.
A flashbang grenade detonated with a blinding flash and a deafening, chest-crushing roar.
Michael shrieked, clutching his ears, his gun flying from his hand as the shockwave knocked him sprawling across the wet carpet. Victoria screamed, covering her face as high-wind rain blasted into the luxury apartment through the blown-out window.
From the shattered balcony, three tactical operatives in full body armor rappelled into the room, their boots crunching over the broken glass.
Behind them, stepping calmly through the ruined frame from the rain-swept terrace, was Julian Ricci.
His dark coat was drenched, his hair pushed back from his face, his eyes as cold and unforgiving as a winter sea. In his right hand, he carried a simple manila folder.
Julian walked over to where his younger brother lay writhing on the floor. He placed the heavy heel of his shoe directly onto Michael’s wrist—the wrist bearing the Audemars Piguet with the emerald green dial—and pressed down with slow, agonizing pressure until bone cracked.
Michael let out a high-pitched, pathetic wail. “Julian! Julian, please! I’m your brother! Blood! We’re blood!”
Julian looked down at him, his face an impenetrable mask of absolute disgust.
“Our father died with poison in his veins, Michael,” Julian whispered softly. “You stopped being my brother the day you put that cup to his lips.”
Julian lifted his foot and kicked the gun across the room, where Daniel scooped it up. Then Julian turned his gaze toward Victoria, who was shivering uncontrollably on the couch, sobbing into her hands.
“Get up,” Julian said.
Victoria slowly raised her head, looking at the man she had planned to murder only hours earlier. “Julian... I loved you. I really did. Michael manipulated me—”
“Save it for the judge,” Allison’s voice cut in from the elevator entrance.
Allison stepped forward, pulling a crumpled, blood-stained photograph from her pocket. She threw it into Victoria’s lap. It was the photograph of little Elliot in his hospital bed.
“You told Michael that my father died like a dog,” Allison said, her voice trembling with righteous fury. “My father died saving Julian’s father from the very monsters you were selling your soul to. You thought I was just an invisible maid who poured your drinks and cleaned your bathrooms. But in this family, loyalty is remembered.”
Julian walked to the dining table and dropped the manila folder onto the polished wood.
“Inside that folder,” Julian said, addressing both of them, “is the uncorrupted, original will of Antonio Ricci, signed seven years ago, witnessed by federal prosecutors, and authenticated by DNA verification.”
Julian turned to Michael. “You don't get a dime. You don't get a single square foot of the docks. And before the sun rises over Tampa Bay, every offshore account in your name will be seized by the Department of Justice.”
Michael glared up from the floor, his face twisted in venomous hatred. “You think you won, Julian? You think those cartel bosses won't come for you? They know about the docks! They’ll tear your empire apart brick by brick!”
Julian leaned down, grabbing Michael by the collar of his ruined shirt, hauling him up until their faces were inches apart.
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“The cartel answered to my father thirty years ago, little brother,” Julian whispered into his ear. “And tonight, they learned who runs Tampa now.”
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