Chapter 4 - The House on the Lake
Vincent took the stairs three at a time, drawing a custom silver handgun from his shoulder holster as he reached the third-floor medical wing.
He kicked the heavy oak doors open with a deafening crash. "Doctor!"
The room was empty.
The white medical beds were unmade. The window overlooking the rear gardens stood wide open, the sheer white curtains billowing violently in the freezing autumn wind. On the glass bedside table sat two empty syringes and a silver tray.
Vincent rushed to the window and looked down. A rope ladder hung from the stone balustrade, swaying above the empty flowerbeds forty feet below.
A quiet floorboard creaked behind him.
Vincent spun around, raising his weapon instantly.
Clara stood in the doorway, clutching her stuffed rabbit. She wasn't crying. She held out a small scrap of paper she had picked up from the hallway floor.
Vincent lowered his gun and took the paper. Written in crisp, precise medical handwriting was a brief note:
If you want your nephews alive, bring Clara and the watch to the quarry house at midnight. Come alone, or the Caruso bloodline ends tonight.
Vincent folded the note into his pocket. He picked up Clara, carrying her back down to the ground floor.
He didn't call the city police, nor did he alert the family lieutenants. In the mafia underworld, a war within the bloodline had to be settled by blood.
He walked down to the subterranean holding cells. Marcus Hale sat on a metal bench inside the concrete room, his head in his hands. When he saw Vincent open the heavy iron bar door, he stood up immediately.
"They took the boys," Vincent said flatly, tossing a spare bulletproof vest and a tactical belt onto the bench. "Dr. Cole was Michael’s man."
Marcus grabbed the gear without hesitation, strapping the Kevlar over his black suit jacket. "Cole was Michael’s personal surgeon in Berlin twelve years ago. I should have seen it."
"We have two hours before midnight," Vincent said, his voice dropping into a register of terrifying resolve. "We’re going to the house by the lake."
Twenty minutes later, a heavy armored black sedan cut through the torrential rain along Route 9, its headlights cutting through the dense pine forest surrounding the abandoned quarry lake.
The house sat on a rocky bluff overlooking the dark, churning water. It was an old two-story timber cabin with boarded-up windows and a crumbling stone chimney. No lights showed from within.
Vincent parked the vehicle two hundred yards back in the tree line. Leaving Clara secured in the reinforced rear seat with strict orders to stay low, Vincent and Marcus crept through the muddy woods, their weapons drawn.
They breached the back door smoothly, sweeping the dark, dust-filled ground floor. The air smelled of burnt kerosene, mold, and old copper.
"Clear," Marcus whispered, checking the dark kitchen.
Vincent stepped into the central living room. In the middle of the floor sat two wooden chairs.
Sitting tied to the chairs were Luca and Nico, their eyes wide with panic above heavy cloth gags.
Vincent rushed forward to cut the ropes. "Luca! Nico!"
"Uncle Vincent, stop!" Luca screamed through his gag as Vincent pulled the cloth down. "It’s a trap!"
Before Vincent could react, a heavy steel grate slammed down from the ceiling rafters, dropping between Vincent and Marcus, trapping Vincent inside the central circle of the room.
From the dark wooden staircase above, slow, heavy footsteps echoed through the quiet house.
May you like
A tall figure descended the stairs, clad in an expensive charcoal coat. Beside him stood Elena, her face pale, holding a silver revolver aimed directly at her own sons.
And behind them stepped the man with the scarred face and raspy breath—Michael Caruso.
