Chapter 8 - The Price of Blood
Inside the stairwell, the third hitman—a massive man holding a tactical shotgun—heard the suppressed gunshots below and turned around at the middle landing.
"What the—"
Cornelius rounded the stone corner like an unstoppable force of nature. Before the hitman could raise his shotgun, Cornelius closed the distance, grabbing the barrel with his bare left hand and jamming his pistol beneath the man's chin.
Pop.
The hitman collapsed down the stone stairs.
Cornelius didn't stop to catch his breath. He took the narrow steps three at a time, his heart hammering against his ribs, his mind completely fixed on the iron hatch at the top of the tower.
When he reached the top landing, he found the lead Romano operative—a ruthless lieutenant named Dominic—using a crowbar to pry open the brass lock on Pearl’s hatch.
Dominic turned around, his eyes widening in shock as he recognized the man standing in the narrow corridor.
"Moretti!" Dominic gasped, raising his weapon.
Cornelius didn't utter a single word. He didn't offer a compromise. He fired three rounds straight through Dominic’s chest, sending the man crashing backward over the stone railing, falling ninety feet down the central shaft of the lighthouse tower.
The deafening echo of the gunshots faded into the sound of the howling wind outside.
Silence returned to the top of the tower.
Cornelius stood before the iron hatch, his breath coming in heavy, ragged gasps, his suit soaked through with rain and blood. He dropped his empty pistol onto the stone floor, stepping closer to the metal door.
He reached out, his trembling, bloody hand gently knocking on the iron plate.
"Pearl?" he called out, his voice cracking with an emotion so deep, so raw, that it barely sounded like his own. "Pearl... it's me. It's Cornelius."
Inside the lantern room, Pearl froze. She dropped the heavy iron wrench onto the floor, tears bursting from her eyes as she heard his voice through the metal floorboards.
With trembling hands, she reached down, sliding the heavy brass deadbolt open.
The iron hatch was lifted from the outside.
Cornelius stepped up into the glass lantern room.
For three agonizing seconds, they simply stared at each other in the dim light of the flashing storm.
Cornelius looked at her—her wet dark hair, her pale, tear-stained face, and the heavy, beautiful curve of her pregnant stomach. He saw no anger in her eyes—only pure, overwhelming relief.
Cornelius fell to his knees right there on the iron floor, dropping his head against her legs, his massive shoulders shaking as he wept openly for the first time in his adult life.
"I'm sorry," Cornelius sobbed into the fabric of her dress, holding her knees like a dying man holding onto a lifeline. "I'm so sorry, Pearl... I almost lost you... I almost lost both of you..."
Pearl looked down at the powerful titan of New York, kneeling broken at her feet, covered in rain and blood, weeping for her forgiveness.
Slowly, tenderly, she sank down to her knees beside him on the floor, reaching out her hands to gently cup his cold, wet face, lifting his head so he looked into her eyes.
"Cornelius," she whispered, tears streaming down her cheeks. "Look at me."
He looked at her, his dark eyes filled with absolute surrender.
"I don't want your empire," Pearl whispered, pressing her forehead against his. "I don't want your guards, your money, or your power. I just want my husband back. The man I loved at the iron bell."
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Cornelius reached out, his large, warm palm resting gently over the heavy curve of her stomach, feeling a strong, miraculous kick against his fingers.
"He's gone, Pearl," Cornelius swore, his voice ringing with absolute, unyielding conviction. "The mobster is dead. I will burn the syndicate to the ground. I will give up everything. Just let me be a father to our child. Just let me come home."
