Chapter 4 - THE BREAKING POINT
"Don't move," Marcus said, his thumb flicking the safety switch on his Glock 19. The sharp metallic click echoed off the stone basement walls.
"Marcus," I said quietly, keeping my hands raised, holding my phone tight in my left palm. "Look at the duct. Look at what’s attached to the vent."
"I don't care what's on the vent," Marcus said cold and steady. "I get paid forty thousand dollars a month by Dr. Kesler’s clinical research trust to make sure nobody comes down into this section of the basement."
A cold realization hit me.
Marcus wasn't just a guard enforcing Vincent’s orders. He was on Kesler's payroll.
"He’s torturing an eight-year-old child, Marcus," I said, turning my head slightly, trying to look him in the eye. "He’s using low-frequency sound waves to induce panic attacks in a motherless girl!"
"He’s giving a billionaire's broken kid a reason to stay locked away," Marcus sneered softly. "As long as the girl is crazy, Kesler controls the medical trust fund. As long as Kesler controls the trust fund, I get my cut. You shouldn't have opened that blueprint binder, Hazel. You should have stayed in your room."
"What are you going to do?" I asked, my blood running cold. "Kill me? Vincent Kretti will hunt you to the ends of the earth."
Marcus chuckled—a dry, humorless sound. "Vincent Kretti thinks you're an unstable foster kid with a history of emotional trauma. If you disappear tonight, or if you end up floating in the Hudson River with a bottle of stolen painkillers in your pocket, nobody asks questions. They'll just say the seventh nanny broke under the pressure."
He raised the weapon, aligning the sight with the back of my head.
BANG.
A deafening crack shattered the silence of the basement.
A cloud of white plaster dust exploded off the pillar next to Marcus's head.
Marcus shrieked, dropping to one knee, spinning around to fire toward the dark wine racks.
Vincent Kretti stepped out from behind a massive oak wine barrel, holding a sleek black Kimber .45 pistol in a firm, two-handed grip. His face was a mask of absolute, murderous fury.
Behind him stood Monique, holding a heavy iron fireplace poker.
"Drop the weapon, Marcus," Vincent ordered, his voice echoing through the basement like thunder. "Or the next bullet goes between your eyes."
Marcus froze, looking at the barrel of Vincent’s gun. He knew Vincent Kretti’s reputation. He knew Vincent didn't miss.
Slowly, cursing under his breath, Marcus set his Glock on the concrete floor and kicked it away.
Within three seconds, two loyal house guards who had followed Vincent down the stairs tackled Marcus to the floor, pinning his arms behind his back and securing him with heavy plastic zip-ties.
Vincent didn't look at Marcus. He walked straight up to me, pulling the flathead screwdriver out of my trembling hand, and stepped up to the ventilation duct.
He stared at the gray transducer box. He stared at the Columbia Medical manufacturing label.
Then, with his bare hand, Vincent ripped the device off the steel duct, snapping the wires, and smashed it onto the concrete floor under his heavy leather boot until it was reduced to a pile of shattered plastic and bent microchips.
He looked at me. His gray eyes were no longer cold; they were burning with a terrifying, white-hot fire.
"Where is Kesler right now?" Vincent asked Monique.
"He’s at his private residence in Greenwich," Monique said, her voice shaking with rage. "He is scheduled to arrive here at eight AM tomorrow for Zara’s weekly injection."
Vincent reached into his coat pocket, pulled out his phone, and made a single call.
"Tony," Vincent said into the receiver. "Bring six men to the estate. Bring the heavy vans. And call our contacts at the Federal Bureau of Investigation's medical fraud division. We have a target."
He ended the call, turned to me, and set his heavy hand on my shoulder.
"Miss Brennan," Vincent said softly. "You are coming upstairs with me."
"Why?" I asked, wiping sweat from my forehead.
Vincent looked up toward the ceiling—toward the third floor where his daughter slept.
"Because," Vincent said, his voice cracking with raw emotion for the first time, "it’s time I unlocked my daughter’s door."
At 1:15 AM, Vincent, Monique, and I stood outside the rose-colored door on the third floor.
The corridor was completely silent. The security guards had been removed.
Vincent stepped up to the digital keypad lock. His hand was trembling slightly—the great, invincible billionaire mob boss terrified of facing his eight-year-old child.
"I haven't entered this room without her permission in two years," Vincent whispered to me.
"She needs you, Mr. Kretti," I said softly, standing beside him. "She doesn't need a landlord. She needs her father."
Vincent entered his master override code: 1-0-0-4. The date of his wife's birthday.
The digital lock beeped three times. The red light flipped to green.
May you like
CLICK.
Vincent slowly turned the heavy brushed-steel handle and pushed the door open.
