Chapter 8 - The Price of Blood
Inside the private hangar at Teterboro, the sound of the storm outside was replaced by the frantic tapping of keys.
Senator Marcus Vance sat bound to a metal folding chair beneath the flickering fluorescent lights of the aircraft bay.
His hands trembled so violently that Marco had to physically steady his fingers over the biometric scanner.
On the glowing terminal screen, billions of dollars in stolen real estate, off-shore trust funds, and corporate holdings were systematically dismantled.
With each press of his thumb, the wealth Vance had spent fifteen years hoarding was transferred directly into an impenetrable trust bearing Emma’s true name.
“It’s done... it’s all done!” Vance wheezed, his face battered and swollen, tears of ruined ambition streaming down his cheeks.
“Every cent, every property, every holding company... she has it all! She’s the richest woman in the state now!”
“Now let me go, Vincent! A deal is a deal!”
Vincent stood across the room, watching the numbers settle into the encrypted ledger on Marco’s tablet.
He slowly walked over to the bound senator, his footsteps echoing ominously in the cavernous hangar.
“I never made a deal with you, Vance,” Vincent said smoothly, looking down at him with cold detachment.
Vance’s eyes widened in sheer panic.
“You said if I signed over the assets—!”
“I said you would return what you stole, and then you would pay the blood price,” Vincent interrupted, his voice dropping into a deadly whisper.
“You ordered a man to strike my future wife across the face.”
“You made her bleed on the floor of a public restaurant.”
“Do you think money wipes away the insult to her honor? Do you think dollars erase fifteen years of exile?”
Vincent reached inside his coat and withdrew his Kimber .45, pulling back the slide with a crisp, terrifying click.
Vance began to sob hysterically, thrashing against the ropes binding his arms.
“Please, Vincent! I have family! I have grandchildren! Have mercy!”
Vincent pressed the cold muzzle of the weapon against the center of Vance’s forehead.
“Did you have mercy when you locked Emma’s mother inside the burning estate?” Vincent asked, his finger tightening on the trigger.
Vance froze, his breath catching in his throat.
He realized, with absolute certainty, that no god and no government could save him from the judgment standing before him.
“Tell Anthony Romano that his city has been restored to his daughter,” Vincent whispered.
A single, suppressed gunshot echoed through the cavernous hangar, instantly cutting through the noise of the rain.
The bound figure in the chair slumped forward, motionless.
Vincent holstered his weapon without looking back, turning on his heel toward the hangar exit.
“Clean this place up,” Vincent instructed Marco calmly.
“Make it look like a tragic private plane fire on the runway. The FAA will confirm an engine explosion.”
“And the media?” Marco asked, following closely behind.
“Let them report that Senator Vance died in an unfortunate aviation accident while attempting to flee financial fraud charges.”
“He will not exist by sunrise.”
Vincent stepped out into the cooling rain, taking a deep breath of the crisp night air.
The weight that had rested on his shoulders for fifteen long years had finally begun to lift.
The traitors who burned the Romano dynasty were dead.
Their stolen empire was back in rightful hands.
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Now, only one task remained—the most difficult task of his entire life.
He had to return to the hospital, face the woman he loved, and ask her to take her rightful place upon the throne beside him.
