Chapter 6 - THE FINAL CURTAIN
The thunder crashed outside, illuminating the room in brief, terrifying flashes of light.
Isabella was trembling violently on the sofa, clutching her knees to her chest, her eyes wide as she looked between her former lover and the husband she had tried to execute.
“Vincent... please,” she sobbed, tears ruining her makeup, dripping down her pale cheeks. “He forced me! He threatened to kill you if I didn't help him! I did it to save your life!”
Vincent slowly walked over to the sofa. He didn't raise his voice. He didn't show anger. He knelt down in front of her, just as he had done thirty years ago when he asked her to marry him in a small church in Little Italy.
He reached out and gently cupped her face in his large, scarred hand.
“Isabella,” Vincent whispered, his thumb softly brushing away a tear from her cheek. “Do you remember what I told you on our wedding day?”
Isabella shuddered, nodding weakly. “Y-yes... you said... you said nothing in this world could ever come between us.”
Vincent smiled—a cold, heart-wrenching smile that never reached his eyes.
“I lied,” Vincent whispered.
He pulled his hand back, stood up, and looked at Elena.
“He’s all yours, Agent Vance.”
Elena stepped forward, pulling a pair of heavy steel handcuffs from her tactical belt. “Arthur Hayes, Isabella Torino, you are under arrest for conspiracy to commit murder, racketeering, and treason against the United States.”
Hayes looked up from the floor, a bitter, desperate laugh escaping his lips. “You think you’ve won, Vincent? Look at you! Your empire is gone! Your family is destroyed! You have nothing left!”
Vincent walked back to the shattered window, looking out over the sprawling, rain-slicked metropolis below. The sirens were already blaring in the distance, blue and red lights flashing through the storm like fireflies as dozens of federal vehicles sped toward the St. Regis Hotel.
Vincent reached into his inner jacket pocket and pulled out a fresh, unlit Cuban cigar. He lit it with a gold Zippo lighter, the small flame illuminating his razor-sharp jawline in the dark room.
“You’re wrong, Arthur,” Vincent said, blowing a smooth ring of grey smoke into the howling rain. “An empire isn't built of stone, marble, or money. An empire is built on loyalty.”
He turned back to face the room.
“And I just found out who my real soldiers are.”
Vincent looked at Elena. For a fraction of a second, the veteran federal agent and the legendary mob boss shared a look of absolute, unspoken understanding.
“Five minutes, Agent Vance?” Vincent asked softly.
Elena looked down at her watch, then back at the man who had just saved her life twice in six hours.
“My official report will state that the suspect escaped through the rooftop ventilation shaft before federal forces could secure the perimeter,” Elena said smoothly, turning her back to the window as she slammed the handcuffs onto Hayes’s wrists. “You have four minutes and fifty seconds, Mr. Torino.”
Vincent nodded once.
“Goodbye, Isabella,” he said without looking back.
Vincent Torino stepped out onto the narrow ledge of Penthouse 40, pulled himself up onto the steel ladder leading to the rooftop helipad, and disappeared into the rain.
Three minutes later, a unregistered black Bell 429 helicopter lifted off from the roof of the St. Regis Hotel, banking sharply into the storm clouds above the city skyline.
Inside the cabin, Vincent leaned back against the leather seat, staring down at the glowing lights of Chicago fading into the dark horizon.
His house was gone. His family was shattered. His name was splashed across every headline in the country.
He was a ghost. He was an outlaw.
He was free.
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And as the helicopter soared into the dark, limitless sky, Vincent Torino took a slow drag from his cigar and smiled into the night.
The king was dead. Long live the king.
