Chapter 17 - The Lion’s Wrath
Before the panicked crowd could bottleneck at the doors, Frank and two security operatives moved with lightning speed, ushering the guests into the secure storage wing behind the main gallery floor.
Maria did not run.
She stood firmly beside Vincent, her hand clutching his arm, her eyes fixed on the young gunman standing in the center of the room.
Vincent did not reach for a weapon.
He stepped forward, placing his broad body directly between Julian Bianchi’s revolver and the terrified young woman cowering near the window.
Vincent walked slowly across the marble floor.
His heavy leather shoes made a steady, rhythmic sound that echoed like a death knell through the silent gallery. His dark suit was immaculate, his gray eyes completely devoid of fear—holding only an icy, ancient rage that made the air in the room feel heavy enough to crush bone.
"Julian Bianchi," Vincent said softly, his deep baritone voice carrying a terrifying authority that froze the young gunman in his tracks. "Your father was a smarter man than you. When I broke his family three years ago, he had the good sense to bow his head and leave the state."
Julian’s hand trembled slightly as he aimed the silver revolver straight at Vincent’s forehead.
"Shut up, Torino!" Julian screamed, his arrogant composure cracking under the weight of Vincent’s stare. "I’m not my father! I’m taking back what belongs to the Bianchi family! One bullet through your head, and this whole foundation collapses!"
"Shoot me then," Vincent said quietly.
He took another step forward.
He was now five feet away from the barrel of the gun.
Julian’s eyes widened in sudden, hysterical panic. He had expected the former mob boss to negotiate, to plead, to offer millions in ransom. He had not expected a titan who walked toward a bullet as if it were nothing more than a stray gust of wind.
"I said stay back!" Julian shrieked, his finger tightening on the trigger.
Vincent didn't stop.
In one fluid, blindingly fast motion—a movement refined by decades of ruthless street survival—Vincent’s left hand struck upward, slamming hard against Julian’s wrist, driving the revolver skyward just as a thunderous shot echoed through the gallery.
BANG!
The bullet shattered a glass skylight thirty feet above, sending a shower of crystal shards cascading down like rain.
Before Julian could pull the trigger a second time, Vincent grabbed the young man’s throat with his broad right hand, lifting Julian off his feet and slamming him violently against the brick support pillar beside the sculpture.
The heavy silver revolver clattered uselessly onto the marble floor.
Julian gasped for air, his feet dangling six inches off the ground, his eyes wide with pure, unadulterated terror as he looked into the gray eyes of the Wolf of New York.
"You came into my gallery," Vincent whispered, his voice dropping into a low, terrifying rasp that made Julian’s blood run cold. "You threatened my niece. You endangered my wife."
Vincent’s thumb tightened slightly on Julian’s windpipe.
"If you ever speak my family’s name again," Vincent murmured, his face inches from the trembling young man’s pale cheek, "I won't call the police, Julian. I will bury you so deep in the foundations of this city that not even God will find your bones."
Vincent tossed Julian across the floor like a rag doll.
Julian crashed onto the marble, coughing violently, clutching his throat, weeping tears of pure terror as Frank and two operatives grabbed him by his arms and dragged him toward the rear exit where the police sirens were already wailing in the streets outside.
Vincent stood in the center of the gallery, his breathing steady, his suit jacket unwrinkled.
He slowly turned around.
Sofia stood near the window, weeping softly, her hands covering her face in shock.
Maria stepped forward, wrapping her arms around the young girl’s shoulders, holding her tightly, comforting her with soft, loving words.
Vincent walked over to them.
He reached out, his broad, strong hand resting gently on Sofia’s trembling shoulder.
"It is over, Sofia," Vincent said softly, his voice returning to its warm, protective tone. "You are safe. This house protects its own."
Sofia looked up, wiping her tears, seeing the deep, unshakeable devotion in her uncle’s eyes.
May you like
She knew then that she was no longer a fatherless orphan in Palermo.
She was a Torino.
