Chapter 13: The Hostages
Chapter 13: The Hostages
I crept to the swinging doors of the kitchen, peering through the small circular window. The main dining room was a disaster zone. What had been a beautifully arranged private dining area was now a landscape of violence. Tables were flipped over, expensive linens ruined, and crystal glassware was shattered into thousands of glittering fragments across the hardwood floor.
My father was on his knees near the center of the room. His face was badly bruised, a cut above his eye bleeding freely, and his hands were tightly zip-tied behind his back. Uncle Brett and Aunt Carol cowered in the far corner, weeping silently, too terrified to even look up.
In the center of the room, looking entirely unfazed by the destruction, stood a silver-haired man in a bespoke Italian suit. He held a suppressed pistol directly to the back of Diane's head. It was Valenti, a notorious crime syndicate boss whose reputation for ruthless efficiency was well-documented by the FBI.
"Your sister is remarkably stubborn, Diane," Valenti purred, pacing slowly in front of her like a predator inspecting its prey. "Or perhaps just profoundly stupid. The digital lock on the offshore account remains active."
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"She won't answer!" Diane sobbed hysterically, black mascara streaking down her pale face, her hands trembling as she clutched a shattered wine glass base. "She's vindictive! She's always been jealous of me! She's doing this on purpose to ruin my life!"
I gritted my teeth. Unbelievable. Even with a loaded gun pressed firmly to her skull, surrounded by her battered family, Diane somehow managed to cast herself as the ultimate victim of my supposed malice.
