Chapter 10
The silence in the lodge was absolute, broken only by the crackling of the fire and the howling blizzard outside.
Julian Vance swallowed hard, his knuckles whitening around his gold walking stick. "Richard... let’s be reasonable. The Commission won't sanction an open slaughter between our families."
"The Commission doesn't govern my home, Julian," Richard said, taking three slow, deliberate strides until he stood less than arm’s length from the rival boss. "You entered my lodge uninvited. You conspired with traitors. You die here."
Before Julian could raise his walking stick, Richard moved with blinding, explosive speed.
His tattooed right hand shot out like an iron clamp, seizing Julian by the throat. With brutal, effortless strength, Richard slammed the younger boss backward against the heavy cedar doorframe. In the same motion, Richard drew his matte-black 1911 from his shoulder holster and pressed the cold steel barrel beneath Julian’s chin.
"Tell your men outside to drop their weapons and surrender the vehicles," Richard whispered into Julian’s ear, his voice chilled with lethal finality. "Or your brains will decorate my entrance hall before the clock strikes midnight."
Julian’s eyes bulged in pure terror. He gasped for breath, his hands clawing weakly at Richard’s iron grip. "Drop... drop your guns! Drop them now!" Julian choked out to his men.
The four mercenaries hesitated for half a second before unclipping their rifles and letting them clatter onto the hardwood floor, raising their hands in total surrender.
Richard didn't look at them. "Viktor. Disarm them. Strip their communications. Lock them in the lower garage with the others."
"Yes, Boss!" Viktor’s men moved in, kicking the weapons aside and zip-tying the intruders with practiced efficiency.
Richard released his grip, allowing Julian to slump to the floor, gasping and rubbing his bruised throat.
Richard turned back to the room. He looked at Mark and Claudia, who were weeping openly, realizing that their grand coup had collapsed into total, catastrophic ruin.
"Santino," Richard commanded.
Santino stepped down from the mezzanine stairs. "Sir."
"Take Mark and Claudia to the service road," Richard said, his voice flat, emotionless, and final. "Take their phones. Take their coats. Give them two thousand dollars in cash and leave them at the bus depot in Denver. If either of them ever sets foot in this state again, put a bullet in their heads."
"Dad! Please!" Mark wailed, dragging himself across the floor toward Richard’s feet. "I’m your son! I’m your only son!"
Richard didn't even look down. "My son died when he put a belt across a three-year-old boy's back. Get them out of my sight."
Santino and two guards grabbed Mark and Claudia by their collars, hauling them screaming and sobbing through the service doors into the cold night.
Twenty minutes later, the lodge was cleared of enemies. The tactical lights were turned off, and the warm, bright chandeliers were lit once more. The broken glass had been swept, the furniture righted, and the roaring fire fed with fresh pine logs.
Richard walked up the grand staircase to his private suite.
He opened the heavy oak door. The room was warm and quiet. Little Noah was sitting on the massive king-sized bed, wearing a soft, oversized wool sweater, his freshly bandaged feet tucked beneath a thick down comforter. He had a bowl of warm chicken soup on his lap, his rosy cheeks flushed with healthy color, his bright hazel eyes wide with awe.
On the nightstand beside him rested the handmade wooden airplane, its red ribbon straightened and neat.
"Grandpa," Noah said softly, a bright, pure smile breaking across his face. "Did you finish your work?"
Richard felt the ice around his heart melt away. He walked over to the bed, sat down on the mattress, and gently cupped Noah’s chin in his large, warm hand.
"Yes, my boy," Richard murmured, his voice filled with deep, protective love. "The work is finished. Now it’s time to celebrate."
Richard picked up the little wooden airplane, turning it over in his fingers with deep reverence.
Suddenly, the encrypted satellite phone on the nightstand vibrated with a sharp, insistent hum.
Richard picked it up, glancing at the screen. It was an unlisted satellite transmission originating from an offshore vessel in the Pacific. He pressed the receiver to his ear.
"Speak," Richard said softly.
A raspy, unfamiliar voice crackled through the static:
"Richard Bellacorte. You handled the Vances well... but Julian was only the distraction. While your men were securing the lodge, Elena’s real family landed in Denver. They know Noah is with you. And they’re coming to take back what belongs to them."
The line went dead.
May you like
Richard slowly lowered the phone, his grey eyes turning toward the dark window, where the blizzard continued to howl against the glass.
He looked down at Noah, then back at the dark mountain road below. The war inside his house was over, but the true battle for his grandson had only just begun.
