Chapter 5 - The Snake in the Garden
The phone in Vincent's hand felt cold.
"What did you say?" Vincent asked, his voice dropping into a quiet fury that made the guards in the hall stiffen.
"Moretti is a ghost story, Vincent!" Salvatore gasped through the static. "The Chicago family didn't tip off the feds! It was someone inside! Someone who wanted you to focus on Newark so the house would be vulnerable! They didn't want to kidnap the girl—they wanted to kill her to break you! Just like they did twenty years ago!"
Vincent’s heart stopped. The room seemed to lose all its oxygen.
"New Haven," Vincent whispered.
"The rain-slick road... the cut brake lines... it wasn't an accident, Vincent! It was him! He’s been waiting for you to grow old, to grow soft! And now he’s in the house!"
The line went dead with a sharp, static hiss.
Vincent slowly lowered the phone. His mind, usually a perfect machine of logic, was spinning out of control. Twenty years of grief, twenty years of guilt, twenty years of believing his wife and daughter had died because of a slick road and a bad turn.
It was a hit.
And the person who did it was still in his house.
He bolted down the hallway, his boots thudding against the Persian rugs. He didn't go to the study. He didn't go to the basement. He went to the guest wing.
He kicked the door of the guest suite open.
The room was empty. The bed was made, the sheets untouched. Antonio Castellano’s leather suitcase was gone.
"Giuseppe!" Vincent roared.
The security chief ran into the room, his face pale. "Boss? What’s wrong?"
"Where is Antonio?"
"He... he said he was going to the kitchen to get some warm milk for Sophia, Boss. About ten minutes ago."
Vincent didn't answer. He sprinted toward the nursery, his heart hammering against his ribs like a wild animal.
As he reached the east wing corridor, the scent of smoke hit him. It was thick, sweet, and carrying the unmistakable chemical smell of gasoline.
The nursery door was locked from the inside.
From behind the heavy oak wood, Vincent could hear the sound of crackling fire and a child’s terrified scream.
"Sophia!" Vincent yelled, throwing his shoulder against the door.
The heavy wood didn't budge. It was a reinforced security door—installed to keep intruders out, now serving to keep a child in.
WOOF! WOOF!
Diesel’s deep, booming bark echoed from inside the room, followed by a heavy thud as the dog threw his 120-pound body against the door.
"Get the keys, Giuseppe! Get the axes!" Vincent screamed, his face covered in sweat.
"The override panel is offline, Boss! The wires have been cut!" Giuseppe yelled from the hallway panel.
Through the small glass pane at the top of the door, Vincent could see the orange glow of flames rising from the curtains. Standing in the center of the room, holding a silver lighter in one hand and a long-steel blade in the other, was Antonio Castellano.
His old-world manners were gone. His face was twisted into a mask of pure, ancient hatred.
"You took everything from me, Vincent," Antonio screamed through the glass, his voice cracking with madness. "My sister... my family's legacy... you turned us into your servants! You made us beg for your scraps!"
"Antonio, let the girl go!" Vincent pleaded, his hands slamming against the reinforced glass. "She’s your granddaughter!"
"She is a Castellano!" Antonio roared. "And she will die like a Castellano! With the Romano house burning around her!"
He raised the knife, stepping toward Sophia, who was cowering in the corner, her arms wrapped around Diesel’s neck.
The dog’s ears were flat against his head, his lips pulled back to reveal his fangs, his body standing between the little girl and the blade.
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Antonio lunged forward with the knife. But he didn't strike the girl. Diesel launched himself off the floor, his massive jaws closing around Antonio’s arm. As the two tumbled into the growing flames, the floorboards beneath them—damaged by the intense heat and the weight of the struggle—let out a sickening crack, collapsing into the dark, forgotten void of the estate's old furnace room below.
