Chapter 9 - The Trap Springs
The interior of Unit 114 was dry, smelling of cedar shavings, old canvas, and dried lavender.
Vivienne knelt beside an old steamer trunk in the back corner of the locker. Her hands were remarkably steady as she unlocked the small velvet-lined case tucked beneath her mother’s wedding dress. Inside sat the heavy brass cylinder, its engraved Roman numerals catching the dim light of Lev’s tactical flashlight.
She picked it up. It felt heavy—heavy with the weight of fifty million dollars, heavy with the blood that had been spilled over it for thirty years.
She walked out of the unit into the falling snow.
Nathan had been dragged to the side of the lane, bound with heavy plastic zip-ties, his leg crudely bandaged by Lev to keep him from bleeding to death before the authorities arrived. He was glaring at Vivienne with a mixture of terror and unbridled hatred.
Roman was waiting by the front of the Maybach, watching her approach.
“Is that it?” Roman asked quietly.
Vivienne looked down at the brass cylinder in her palm. Then, without a word, she extended her arm and placed it into Roman’s open hand.
Roman didn't close his fingers around it immediately. He looked at the key, then up into her eyes, genuinely surprised.
“This is your freedom, Vivienne,” Roman said, his voice dropping low. “With this cylinder, you could negotiate a new identity in Europe. You could live anywhere in the world and never work another day in your life.”
“I don't want stolen money,” Vivienne said, her voice clear and steady against the howling wind. “And I don't want to run anymore. I spent two years letting fear dictate where I slept, what I ate, and who I looked at. Nathan used money to control me. I won't use it to hide.”
Roman stared at her, a profound emotion flickering through the depths of his pale eyes—something far more dangerous than respect, far deeper than desire. He closed his fist around the brass cylinder, pocketing it inside his coat.
“Then what do you want?” Roman murmured, stepping so close she could feel the heat of his breath against her freezing lips.
“I want Nathan to face justice,” she said, looking past Roman toward the shivering wreck on the ground. “Real justice. Not a mob execution in an alley. I want him to stand before a judge, stripped of his family’s money, stripped of his pride, and hear the guilty verdict he avoided two years ago.”
Roman looked over his shoulder at Nathan, then back to Vivienne.
“That can be arranged,” Roman said. “The ledger files you gave me are already in the hands of the U.S. Attorney’s office. With Nathan’s liquidation attempts tonight, the federal warrants will drop by dawn. He will spend the next twenty-five years in a federal penitentiary.”
Nathan let out a muffled sob from the snow, his head slumping forward against his chest in total defeat.
Suddenly, the night air was shattered by the distant, rising wail of sirens.
Red and blue emergency lights flashed against the snow-covered brick walls at the end of Elm Street. Five patrol cruisers, followed by two black unmarked federal sedans, turned into the industrial park, their searchlights cutting through the darkness.
Lev drew his weapon instantly. “Boss! Feds! We have sixty seconds before they block the perimeter!”
Roman didn't flinch. He didn't draw a gun. He merely looked down at Vivienne, his expression unreadable.
“Nathan’s partners called in the panic button before we arrived,” Roman said calmly. “They wanted the police here to catch Nathan with the Morettis. Instead, they’re going to find him broken in a storage alley with half a million dollars in illegal bearer bonds in his trunk.”
“Roman,” Vivienne gasped, her heart leaping into her throat as the cruisers closed in. “You need to leave. If they catch you here with him—”
“I don't run from sirens, Vivienne,” Roman said softly.
He reached out, his gloved hand cupping the side of her face, his thumb gently caressing her cheekbone. The intensity in his pale eyes made the entire world—the sirens, the snow, the armed men—fade into static.
“You have a choice now,” Roman whispered, his lips hovering barely an inch from hers. “When the federal agents step out of those cars, you can tell them the truth: that Roman DeLuca brought you here by force, that you were an innocent bystander caught in a gang war. They will put you in witness protection. They will give you a new name in a sunny town where no one knows your face.”
“And you?” she breathed, her fingers clutching the lapels of his heavy wool coat.
“I am Roman DeLuca,” he murmured, a faint, devastating smile touching his lips. “I remain in the shadows of this city. But if you walk away from me tonight, you will never have to look over your shoulder again. You will be free.”
The first police cruiser skidded to a halt thirty yards away, its high-beam spotlights pinning them in a blinding cone of white light.
*“This is the Chicago Police Department! Put your hands in the air and step away from the vehicle!”* a loudspeaker boomed through the falling snow.
May you like
Vivienne looked at the blinding lights, then looked back into the gray eyes of the man who had pulled her out of the darkness.
***
