Chapter 8 - The Night Amelia Chose to Stand Beside Him—Not Behind HimBy sunrise, Vincent was in federal custody again.
Not arrested.
Not officially.
“Detained for questioning” was the phrase Ruiz used.
Vincent laughed when he heard it.
“I remember this vocabulary.”
Amelia didn't.
She stood outside interview room watching through glass while two agents questioned him about Judge Mercer.
Vincent had no alibi for the first part of evening.
His apartment fire gave him one later.
But Mercer had died before flames began.
Nicholas arrived with coffee.
Amelia refused it.
“You should eat.”
She glared.
Nicholas raised hands.
“Suggestion.”
“Good recovery.”
They waited.
Hours.
Then Ruiz came out.
“Ballistics don't connect to anything associated with Vincent.”
“Then release him.”
“It's not that simple.”
Amelia hated that sentence.
Ruiz lowered voice.
“Mercer's name being found at Vincent's burned apartment makes this look staged.”
“Obviously.”
“Yes. But staged by whom?”
“Rizzo.”
“We need proof.”
Amelia looked through glass.
Vincent sat with hands folded.
Calm.
Too calm.
She recognized it now.
Not confidence.
Armor.
“He thinks he's going back.”
Ruiz looked at her.
“He knows it's possible.”
Amelia's chest tightened.
When Vincent was released twelve hours later, he walked outside and found Amelia waiting.
“You stayed.”
“Don't make it romantic.”
“I wasn't.”
“You were thinking it romantically.”
“A little.”
She handed him coffee.
He drank.
“Still terrible.”
“Consistency matters.”
He looked at her.
Something shifted.
But before either could speak, Nicholas called.
Angela was gone.
Not kidnapped.
She had left safe apartment voluntarily.
On table was note.
I AM TIRED OF BEING BAIT.
Ruiz swore.
Nicholas panicked.
Amelia did not.
“Where would she go?”
“The diner.”
“No.”
“Hospital?”
“No.”
Then Amelia remembered.
Angela had once told her there was one place Nicholas never looked when they fought.
Church.
Not because Angela was religious.
Because Nicholas hated churches.
His father had dragged him to confession as child.
They found Angela sitting in back pew of St. Cecilia's.
Alone.
Nicholas rushed toward her.
She stood.
“Don't.”
He stopped.
“You disappeared!”
“Yes.”
“Someone threatened you.”
“Yes.”
“And you left protection?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I have spent eleven years being protected by men who keep moving me around like luggage!”
Amelia almost applauded.
Nicholas looked helpless.
Angela pointed toward him.
“You hid from your sister.”
“Yes.”
“You hid me.”
“Yes.”
“You lied.”
“Yes.”
“And every time danger comes, you decide the answer is another locked room.”
Nicholas's face crumpled.
“I don't know how to lose you.”
Angela softened.
“You don't prevent losing someone by owning their movement.”
Vincent looked down.
That sentence landed on more than Nicholas.
Angela continued.
“I will accept security.”
Nicholas nodded immediately.
“But I choose where I stay.”
“Yes.”
“I keep my phone.”
“Yes.”
“I work if Ruiz says it is reasonably safe.”
Nicholas struggled.
Angela raised eyebrow.
“Reasonably.”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
Amelia watched.
This strange family.
People trying to unlearn fear.
Some days successfully.
Some days badly.
Then church door opened.
A young man entered.
Vincent recognized him from Rizzo's car photographs.
“Down.”
This time Amelia obeyed because tone wasn't ownership.
It was warning.
The young man raised both hands.
“I don't have a weapon.”
Ruiz's agents surrounded him.
He looked terrified.
“My name is Peter Rizzo.”
Salvatore's son.
Vincent stared.
“I didn't know he had a son.”
“Most people don't.”
Peter looked at Amelia.
“My father is going to kill more people.”
Ruiz searched him.
Clean.
“What do you know?”
Peter swallowed.
“He has copies of ledger.”
“Where?”
“I don't know.”
“What does he want?”
Peter looked at Vincent.
“He wants you to become what you were.”
Vincent's expression changed.
“Why?”
“Because Marco blamed you.”
“For what?”
“Everything.”
Peter explained.
Marco had written letters before death.
To Rizzo.
To old associates.
He believed Vincent's cooperation destroyed family.
Destroyed empire.
Destroyed Castellano name.
Marco could not kill Vincent from grave.
But he could destroy redemption.
Rizzo's mission was simple.
Force Vincent to choose violence.
Capture it.
Expose it.
Prove to world that Vincent had never changed.
Amelia stared.
“This is revenge?”
Peter nodded.
“Partly.”
“What else?”
“Money.”
Always money.
Rizzo planned to sell ledger pages to people named inside.
Pay or be exposed.
Judge Mercer had refused.
So Rizzo killed him.
Vincent asked:
“Why tell us?”
Peter looked sick.
“Because my father killed my mother.”
Silence.
“She found ledger copies.”
His eyes filled.
“He said she betrayed him.”
Amelia understood that word.
Betrayed.
The favorite word of men who confused disobedience with treason.
Peter gave Ruiz address.
Warehouse in New Jersey.
Federal raid began that night.
Vincent was ordered to remain behind.
He agreed.
That surprised everyone.
Amelia sat beside him in command center.
Screens showed tactical teams entering warehouse.
Empty.
No Rizzo.
Only printer.
Files.
Photographs.
And one live video feed.
Rizzo appeared on screen.
“Vincent.”
Vincent leaned forward.
“You disappoint me.”
“Frequently.”
“You sent police.”
“Federal agents.”
“Even worse.”
Rizzo smiled.
“You used to solve your own problems.”
Vincent looked at Amelia.
Then screen.
“That was the problem.”
Rizzo's smile vanished.
“Marco was right. She made you weak.”
Amelia spoke before Vincent.
“No.”
Rizzo looked toward camera.
“Ah. Amelia.”
“You don't understand him.”
“Neither do you.”
“Maybe.”
She leaned closer.
“But I understand men like you.”
Rizzo's face tightened.
“You think violence proves strength.”
“Sometimes it does.”
“No. Violence proves violence.”
Vincent looked at her.
Rizzo laughed.
“Tell that to your ex-husband.”
“I did.”
“What?”
“I survived him.”
Rizzo's smile disappeared.
Amelia continued.
“And he spent decades in prison while I went home.”
Rizzo disconnected.
Ruiz's agents found server logs.
One active location.
Brooklyn waterfront.
They moved.
Vincent remained.
Until Amelia's phone rang.
Unknown.
She answered.
Angela screamed.
Then silence.
Nicholas stood.
“Angela?”
Rizzo came on line.
“Now we'll see.”
Address followed.
Nicholas reached for weapon from agent.
Ruiz stopped him.
Vincent did not move.
Everyone looked at him.
Old Vincent would have.
Everyone knew.
Vincent closed eyes.
Then said:
“Ruiz runs operation.”
Nicholas stared.
“He has my wife!”
“And running in blind gets her killed.”
“You used to—”
“Yes.”
Vincent stepped toward him.
“I used to believe rage was strategy.”
Nicholas shook.
Vincent gripped his shoulders.
Not controlling.
Steadying.
“Trust people whose job this is.”
Nicholas's eyes filled.
“I can't lose her.”
“I know.”
Agents moved.
Amelia stayed with Nicholas.
Vincent stood beside her.
Not in front.
Not behind.
Beside.
Forty-seven minutes later Ruiz called.
Angela recovered.
Alive.
Rizzo escaped.
Nicholas collapsed into chair.
Amelia cried.
Vincent closed eyes.
Then Ruiz added:
“We found something else.”
“What?”
“A room full of photographs.”
“Of whom?”
Pause.
“You.”
Amelia frowned.
“Vincent?”
“No.”
Ruiz's voice changed.
“Amelia.”
Hundreds.
Three years.
Diner.
Apartment.
Therapy office.
Grocery store.
Beach.
Every part of her rebuilt life photographed.
Rizzo had not begun watching her when Vincent returned.
He had been watching her for years.
May you like
And beneath the photographs agents found a handwritten note from Marco.
If Vincent ever chooses her, she becomes the knife.
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