Chapter 4 - The Arrival of Julian Vance
The name seemed to suck all the oxygen right out of the small interrogation room.
Clara’s face drained of what little color it had left. Her hands trembled slightly around Leo, though she instinctively tightened her grip to keep the boy from waking up.
Agent Miller noticed the sudden shift in her demeanor. He looked from Clara to the doorway, a slow, predatory realization dawning on his face. "Vance? Wait a minute... Julian Vance? The high-powered constitutional lawyer out of D.C.? You're his daughter?"
Clara didn't answer. She couldn't. The ghosts she had spent three years running from had finally caught up, and they were wearing her father's expensive wool suit.
Heavy footsteps echoed down the linoleum hallway, and a moment later, Julian Vance strode into the room. He was in his late fifties, with silver-streaked hair, rimless glasses, and an aura of untouchable, aristocratic authority that made even federal agents stand up a little straighter.
Julian took one look at Clara holding the sleeping child, then cast a withering, dismissive glance at Agent Miller.
"Miller," Julian said, his voice dripping with icy contempt. "Still wasting taxpayers' money on fishing expeditions and illegal raids without probable cause, I see."
Miller stood up, recovering his composure quickly. "Vance. I didn't realize the Moretti family could afford federal appellate royalty. Though, considering your daughter is sitting right here acting as an accomplice to a known mob asset, I suppose this is a family reunion of sorts."
Julian’s eyes flashed with a dangerous, protective fire. "Watch your tongue, Miller. My daughter is an independent adult who chose to work for a living, unlike the federal bloodsuckers who harass citizens based on circumstantial garbage. Furthermore, the warrant you used to raid Il Destino tonight was signed by a judge whose jurisdiction expired twenty minutes before your tactical team breached the front doors."
Miller’s jaw tightened. "We have enough evidence—"
"You have a pile of circumstantial trash that wouldn't hold up in a traffic court," Julian interrupted, stepping past the agent and stopping right in front of Clara.
Julian knelt down, bringing himself to eye level with his daughter. His expression softened, though the underlying tension in his jaw remained. "Clara. Look at me."
Clara slowly lifted her eyes to meet her father's. The resentment and fear of three years collided behind her gaze. "Why are you here, Julian? I told you I wasn't going back."
"You think I care about your little rebellion right now?" Julian hissed softly, glancing down at the sleeping toddler. "You're sitting in an FBI interrogation room holding the son of Ricardo Moretti—a man half the intelligence agencies in the world are trying to bury. Do you have any idea what kind of target you've painted on your back?"
"He was screaming," Clara whispered fiercely. "Nobody else could stop him. What was I supposed to let happen, Dad? Let him drown in his own terror?"
Before Julian could reply, the heavy steel door banged open again.
Ricardo Moretti stood in the doorway. The two federal guards who had been escorting him from the holding area were lying sprawled out unconscious in the hallway, and Rico stood unbound, having popped his handcuffs with a terrifying display of raw, calculated strength.
Agent Miller instantly reached for his sidearm, but before his hand could even touch leather, Rico crossed the room in a blur of motion. His hand clamped around Miller’s throat, slamming the federal agent backward against the metal filing cabinets with a sickening crash.
"Touch her or speak to her with disrespect again, Miller, and I'll scatter your teeth across this floor," Rico snarled, his voice a lethal whisper.
"Moretti—stop!" Julian Vance commanded, stepping forward between the mob boss and the pinned agent. Julian didn't flinch. He looked Rico dead in the eye. "Killing a federal agent in a precinct isn't going to help my daughter, Moretti. Let him go."
Rico slowly turned his shattered-ice gaze toward Julian. He recognized the name, and he recognized the face. He assessed the older man in a fraction of a second, then loosened his grip, shoving Miller away with enough force to send the agent sprawling over a chair.
Rico didn't look at Miller again. He walked straight toward Clara.
Clara’s heart pounded against her ribs as the terrifying, powerful capo of the Moretti family stopped right in front of her. He didn't look like a criminal mastermind right now. He looked like a father who had been brought back from the dead.
Rico knelt down slowly on the cold floor, ignoring the federal agents scrambling for their weapons around them. He reached out with hands that had broken bones and signed death warrants, but as they hovered near Leo, they were as steady as stone.
"May I?" Rico whispered, his voice cracking slightly around the edges.
Clara nodded, her throat too tight to speak.
Rico gently slid his arms under his son, lifting Leo from Clara’s lap. For the first time in six months, Leo didn't scream. He stirred, let out a soft murmur, and snuggled his face into the crook of his father's expensive Brioni shirt, his tiny hand still loosely clutching a thread from Clara’s apron that he had refused to let go of.
Rico stood up, holding his son against his chest. He looked from Julian Vance to Clara, the raw emotion in his eyes masked by a terrifying, ironclad resolve.
May you like
"You're both coming with me," Rico said, his voice leaving no room for argument as the sound of approaching sirens echoed from outside the precinct windows.
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