Chapter 8 - The Price of Sovereignty
The rain began to slow to a gentle drizzle as Vincent stood over the broken form of Donald Vance. The dark sky over Lake Forest was beginning to turn a soft, pale violet as the first hint of dawn approached.
Vance looked up at Vincent, his teeth chattering from shock and the biting morning cold. All the bravado, the arrogance, and the violent anger that had terrorized Clara for years had vanished, leaving behind nothing but a pathetic, bleeding man who knew he had reached the end of his line.
“Moretti… please,” Vance wheezed, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps. “Don't kill me. I’ll… I’ll sign whatever you want. The divorce papers… the assets… everything. Just let me live. Let me go back to Michigan.”
Vincent looked down at him, his expression completely blank. He reached into his pocket, pulled out the tiny silver key he had shown Clara earlier, and rolled it between his fingers.
“You don't understand, Donald,” Vincent said softly. “You didn't just break the rules of my city. You broke the rules of humanity. You hunted a woman who had the courage to leave you. You thought her life was yours to take because you were stronger.”
He knelt down, bringing his face close to Vance’s. “My sister died because no one stood between her and a monster like you. Today, I am standing between you and Clara. And I am the last thing you will ever see.”
Vincent didn't lift his gun. He didn't need to. He looked up at Luca, who had descended from the roof, a heavy iron crowbar held in his hand.
“Clean up the courtyard, Luca,” Vincent ordered, standing up and turning his back on Donald Vance for the final time. “Make sure the police find his body in the canal outside city limits. Let Detroit know that the Moretti family has assumed control of all northern pipelines effective immediately.”
“Consider it done, Boss,” Luca replied, his voice grim and resolute.
Vincent walked back up the stone steps of his mansion, his shoulders relaxed, the heavy burden of a thirty-year-old debt finally lifting from his chest. As he entered the grand foyer, he saw Clara standing at the top of the grand staircase. She was wrapped in a soft wool blanket Mrs. Ingrid had given her, her face pale but her eyes clear, watching him with an intensity that made the grand room feel small.
Vincent paused at the base of the stairs, looking up at her.
“It’s over, Clara,” Vincent said, his voice carrying a warmth that his soldiers had never heard before. “Donald Vance will never hurt you again. He will never hurt anyone again. You are entirely free.”
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Clara covered her mouth with her hand, a soft, broken sob escaping her lips—not of grief, but of an overwhelming, beautiful relief that washed over her body like a summer rain. She ran down the stairs, her bare feet clicking against the marble, and threw her arms around Vincent’s neck.
Vincent froze for a split second, entirely unaccustomed to such displays of affection. But slowly, instinctively, he wrapped his powerful arms around her, holding her close, shielding her from the remnants of the night.
