Chapter 5 - Blood Money
The cold metal of the gun dug into Tessa’s ribs.
She couldn't breathe.
Marco’s dead eyes bored into hers.
If she screamed, Vincent couldn't run to save her.
If she stayed silent, Marco might pull the trigger.
Tessa forced herself to look past the gun and straight into Marco's scarred face.
"I work for twenty-five dollars an hour," she said, her voice shaking but defiant.
Marco pressed the gun harder.
"Wrong answer."
"I've been watching you."
"You snoop."
"You whisper with him."
"You're a rat."
Tessa’s survival instinct kicked in.
She remembered something she had seen on Vincent’s desk weeks ago while cleaning.
"I know about the Cayman accounts, Marco," she blurted out.
Marco froze.
The pressure of the gun lessened by a fraction of an inch.
"What did you say?"
"I saw the bank statements," Tessa lied smoothly.
"The ones routed through the shell company in Belize."
"Three hundred thousand dollars skimmed from the trucking union."
Marco’s face drained of color.
"If I die, Vincent already has a dead-man's switch," Tessa said, bluffing for her life.
"He knows you're stealing from him."
"I'm his insurance policy."
Marco stared at her for five agonizing seconds.
Slowly, he lowered the gun.
He tucked it back into his holster.
"You play a dangerous game, little girl," he muttered.
He turned and walked away down the hall.
Tessa slid down the wall, gasping for air.
She survived, but she had just made a powerful enemy.
Inside the bedroom, Vincent was not idle.
He rolled his wheelchair to his heavy oak desk.
He opened his encrypted laptop.
He needed to understand how deep the betrayal went.
He pulled up the archived security footage from the restaurant the night he was shot.
He had watched it a hundred times before.
But now, armed with the warning from the envelope, he looked closer.
He watched his own digital ghost step out of the restaurant.
He watched the black sedan pull up across the street.
He watched the muzzle flash.
But this time, Vincent didn't watch the car.
He watched the background.
He zoomed in on the alleyway adjacent to the restaurant.
A figure stood in the shadows, smoking a cigarette.
The figure checked a watch.
Then, the figure raised a hand and flicked the cigarette directly at the black sedan.
It was a signal.
Two seconds later, the shots were fired.
Vincent enhanced the image, bringing the shadowy figure into focus.
The blood roared in Vincent's ears.
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The man in the alley wasn't a rival gang member.
It was his own brother, Dominic.
