Chapter 8 - The Rosary's Secret
Don Vale backed away from the doorway in sheer, unadulterated shock, his silver pistol trembling in his grip. "Beatrice...? That old woman was in a safe room!"
Victor stepped forward slowly, his broad shoulders squared, his midnight-black tuxedo spotless despite the storm.
"My Aunt Beatrice didn't just raise me, Vale," Victor revealed, his deep voice shaking the quiet room. "She spent forty years acting as the chief financial director of our family trust. While your daughter was busy trying to find my mother, Beatrice was feeding digital evidence of your money laundering directly to the Department of Justice."
Celestine gasped, backing against the hallway wall as tears of rage filled her eyes. "No... no! That's impossible! She's an old woman!"
"She's a Santoro," Victor stated flatly.
Eleanor stepped up beside her son, reaching into her woolen cardigan and pulling out a small silver rosary attached to a micro-encrypted drive.
"This drive contains the complete wiretap recordings from forty years ago, Don Vale," Eleanor said, her voice sharp and authoritative. "The recordings of you ordering the car bombing. The statute of limitations for attempted murder never expires in New York."
Outside the sanctuary, the loud, wailing sirens of twenty state police vehicles cut through the midnight rain. Red and blue lights flashed brightly through the tall arched windows of the corridor.
Don Vale raised his gun in wild, cowardly desperation. "I'll take you with me, Victor!"
CRACK!
Before Don Vale could pull the trigger, a single precise shot echoed from the end of the hallway.
Frank had broken free from his guard, drawing a concealed ankle holster weapon, and fired a single round that struck Don Vale's wrist, sending his silver pistol spinning across the floor.
State troopers and federal marshals poured through the sanctuary doors, their rifles raised, sweeping into the corridor.
"Drop your weapons! Federal warrant!" the lead marshal shouted.
Within thirty seconds, Don Vale, Celestine, and their remaining mercenaries were forced onto their knees, heavy steel handcuffs slapped tightly onto their wrists.
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As Celestine was dragged past Victor in her ruined wedding dress, she looked up at him with bitter, weeping eyes. "Victor... please... we were supposed to be married!"
Victor looked down at her with cold, unyielding indifference. "The wedding is canceled."
