Chapter 17 - The Broken Heiress
By dawn, Pier 42 was secure. Torrisi’s strike team had been completely dismantled, their weapons cataloged, and the survivors handed over to federal agents who had been quietly tracking Torrisi’s offshore money laundering.
When we returned to the estate just as the pale winter sun broke over the skyline, an unexpected sight greeted us at the iron gates.
A solitary figure sat on the frozen curb, shivering violently beneath a ruined cashmere coat. Her high heels were scuffed and caked with mud, her makeup smeared across tear-stained cheeks.
It was Vanessa.
Luca stopped the car ten feet away. His hand went to his weapon, but as we stepped out, it became immediately obvious she posed no threat. She was shaking so hard her teeth clicked together, clutching a torn designer handbag to her chest like a shield.
"Luca..." she whimpered, looking up with bloodshot, terrified eyes. "Please. Please don't let him kill me."
Luca remained motionless, an immovable wall of stone. "Torrisi?"
"He... he figured out Leo failed," she sobbed, crawling forward on her knees until she hit the wet pavement near my boots. "He said the Bellinis were useless dead weight. He killed my father's remaining guards in the penthouse an hour ago. He told me... he told me I was the bait that failed, so I was next."
I looked down at her. Only twenty-four hours ago, this woman had stood in the Drake Hotel dripping in diamonds, sneering at me, calling me a worthless servant who didn't know her place. Now, she was kneeling in the slush, begging the very people she despised to save her life.
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Mrs. Moretti stepped out onto the front porch, wrapping her woolen shawl tightly around her shoulders. She looked down at Vanessa, her expression neither cruel nor triumphant. It was filled with cold, weary sorrow.
"Bring her inside," Mrs. Moretti said quietly. "Take her to the kitchen."
