Chapter 7 - The Final Hour
The wind on the roof felt like a physical weight, pushing against them as the helicopter's blades sliced through the mist. Marco’s eyes darted from Vincent to Agent Miller, his grip tightening on the submachine gun.
"You think you won, Vince?" Marco screamed, his face contorted in an ugly grin. "Look around you! The feds are here. Your accounts are frozen. Even if I don't get the money, you're going down for a long, long time. I took everything from you!"
"You took nothing," Vincent replied, his voice deadly calm as he stopped ten feet away from the barrel of Marco’s gun. "You think my empire is built on numbers in a Swiss bank? You think it’s built on concrete and steel? I built this family on loyalty, Marco. Something you never understood."
"Loyalty?" Marco spat, his scar twisting. "Loyalty got me a scar on my face and fifteen years in exile!"
"You got that scar because you sold out three of our boys to the Colombians for a percentage of a drug route," Vincent said, his words hitting like physical blows. "I didn't exile you because of the money, Marco. I exiled you because you became a monster."
Agent Miller took a step closer, her boots clicking against the wet concrete. "Marco Santini, lower your weapon. The data logs from the 14th floor have already been transmitted to our field office via a secure backup link. We know about Blackwood Holdings. We know you set up the raid. The deal is off."
Marco’s eyes widened slightly, a flicker of genuine panic crossing his features. He realized the net hadn't just dropped on Vincent—it had closed around him, too.
"No," Marco whispered, his knuckles turning white on the trigger. "No, I am not going back to a cage!"
He pivoted his weapon toward Agent Miller, intending to take out the only federal barrier between him and the helicopter.
BANG.
A single, deafening report echoed across the rooftop.
It wasn't Vincent who fired. It wasn't Miller.
Frankie stood at the edge of the elevator bay, his sniper rifle resting against the concrete partition. Marco froze, his submachine gun slipping from his fingers as a small, neat hole appeared in the center of his chest. He staggered back a step, his eyes looking at Vincent with a strange, hollow confusion.
"Vincent..." he gasped, his knees buckling beneath him.
Vincent walked forward, catching his old friend before he hit the hard concrete, lowering him down slowly as the helicopter pilot, realizing the job was completely blown, lifted off into the gray sky, disappearing into the clouds.
Vincent looked down at the man he had once called a brother. "You should have stayed gone, Marco."
Marco’s eyes rolled back, his chest falling still as the life left him. The fifteen-year ghost was finally laid to rest.
Agent Miller lowered her weapon slowly, her shoulders dropping in exhaustion. She looked at Vincent, then at Elena and Sophia, who were huddled near the elevator doors, weeping with relief.
"You're still a criminal, Torino," Miller said quietly, though the edge was gone from her voice.
"Maybe," Vincent said, standing up and wiping a speck of rain from his lapel. "But I’m a criminal who just saved a federal agent’s life from a mercenary squad. And I think that buys me enough time to ensure this little girl and her mother get a safe ride home."
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Miller looked at Sophia, whose big eyes were staring at her with an innocent, silent plea. The agent let out a long breath, tucking her weapon back into her holster. "You have twenty-four hours to get your legal affairs in order, Vincent. After that, I’m coming for your boardrooms."
"I'll buy the coffee, Agent," Vincent said, turning his back on the skyline.
