Chapter 8 - The midnight ransom
The wet asphalt of the financial district became a sudden, violent battleground. The cinematic glow of the streetlights was shattered by the blinding flash of muzzle fire. The cartel soldiers, caught completely off guard by the heavily armed New York Commission enforcers, scrambled for cover behind their armored vans. The sound of automatic gunfire echoed deafeningly between the concrete skyscrapers.
Frank DeLuca watched the chaos from the alleyway, his massive hands gripping his wooden cane. His eyes were locked entirely on Leo. The twelve-year-old boy stood calmly on the top steps of the depository, watching the men slaughter each other. He did not flinch. He did not show a single ounce of childish panic. He looked like a master chess player watching his pawns clear the board.
He’s a monster, Vivienne whispered from the back seat of the SUV, staring in absolute horror at the boy she had sold. Vance broke him. He has no soul.
He has my blood, Frank growled, his voice a deep, protective rumble. And I am going to save him.
Frank threw open the door of the SUV. Boss, you can't walk into that crossfire! Marco yelled, grabbing Frank’s sleeve.
Frank pulled his arm away. Stay with her. If she moves, shoot her.
Frank stepped out into the rainy street. He didn't pull a weapon. He didn't run. He walked with a terrifying, slow deliberation directly into the center of the warzone, his dark suit blending into the shadows, his polished shoes splashing in the puddles. The legendary retired boss moved with such an imposing, immovable aura that the men fighting around him instinctively lowered their weapons as he passed, paralyzed by the sheer weight of his presence.
Richard Vance was crouching behind the engine block of his town car, screaming orders at his cartel soldiers. He looked up and saw Frank walking through the gunfire like a ghost returning from the grave.
Kill him! Vance roared, pointing his silver handgun at Frank.
Before Vance could pull the trigger, Frank moved with explosive, athletic speed. He swung his heavy wooden cane, striking Vance’s wrist with a sickening crack. The silver handgun spun into the air. Frank grabbed Vance by the throat of his expensive camel-hair coat and hurled him violently against the side of the armored van. The impact dented the heavy steel.
Vance slid to the wet pavement, gasping for air, completely neutralized by the older man’s raw, masculine power.
Frank turned away from the defeated cartel boss and walked up the steps of the depository. The New York Commission enforcers parted for him, recognizing the legendary face of the man who had once ruled them all.
Frank stopped three feet away from Leo.
The boy looked up at him. Their eyes met. It was like looking into a mirror across a gap of sixty years. The same strong jawline, the same fair, rosy complexion, the same dark, intelligent eyes.
Hello, grandfather, Leo said, his voice perfectly steady.
Frank felt a massive, heavy knot form in his throat. He wanted to pull the boy into a crushing embrace, to apologize for the twelve years of absence, to weep for his lost daughter. But he knew this boy did not respect emotion. He respected strength.
You orchestrated this, Frank said, his voice a low, commanding rumble. You used the Commission to eliminate Vance.
It was the most efficient tactical maneuver, Leo replied, adjusting his dark winter coat. Vance became a liability. He was planning to relocate me to Europe. That did not align with my long-term objectives. I reached out to the Commission. I offered them the complete routing numbers for Vance’s offshore accounts in exchange for their military support tonight.
Frank stared at the twelve-year-old boy. You sold out the man who raised you.
He was a captor, not a father, Leo stated coldly. He murdered people to build his empire. He treated me as an asset. Assets depreciate. I chose to appreciate my own value.
And what is your objective now? Frank asked.
Leo looked past Frank, staring at the flashing red and blue lights of police cruisers approaching in the distance. The gunfire had finally stopped. Vance was being dragged away by the Commission men.
My objective was to meet you, Leo said, his eyes returning to Frank. Vance told me you were weak. He told me you stepped down from your empire because you were broken by grief. I wanted to see if the legend of Frank DeLuca was true, or if you were just a tired old man.
Frank rested both his hands on the handle of his wooden cane. He leaned forward slightly, casting a massive shadow over the boy.
And what have you deduced? Frank asked, his voice deathly quiet.
Leo looked at the ruined cartel vehicles, the terrified soldiers, and the broken body of Richard Vance. He looked back up at Frank, and for the first time, a small, genuine smile touched the boy's lips.
I deduce that Vance severely miscalculated, Leo said.
Frank reached out and placed a large, calloused hand on the boy’s shoulder. The contact sent a jolt of electricity through Frank’s heart. He squeezed gently.
Let's go home, Leo, Frank said.
Leo did not pull away. He nodded. I would like that. But first, we need to collect the broker.
Frank frowned. Vivienne? She’s in my car. She's finished. I am going to bury her in a federal prison for the rest of her life.
No, Leo said, his young voice suddenly turning incredibly dark. Prison is an inefficient punishment. She didn't just sell me, grandfather. I accessed her private files before the server exploded. She didn't just broker the adoption. She orchestrated the car crash. She murdered my mother to harvest me.
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Frank froze. The world seemed to stop spinning. The cinematic rain felt like ice against his skin. The grief he had buried for twelve years suddenly erupted into a blinding, white-hot fury. Vivienne hadn't just taken advantage of a tragedy. She had created it.
Frank turned slowly, looking back at the dark alleyway where his SUV was parked. The peaceful, retired mafia boss was gone forever. The king of the underworld had returned, and he demanded blood.
