Chapter 4 - The Trap at the SoHo Gallery and the Rescue Mission
The rain had turned into a torrential downpour by 8:00 PM, washing the sleek asphalt of SoHo in shimmering reflections of red and white taillights.
Inside the minimalist, high-end contemporary art gallery on Greene Street, a quiet cocktail reception was underway. White-washed brick walls showcased a stunning collection of haunting, impressionistic oil paintings depicting Parisian alleyways at dusk.
At the center of the room stood Camille Laurent.
She wore a simple, elegant black dress, her dark hair falling past her shoulders in soft waves. Her face was pale, drawn with a quiet, persistent exhaustion that spoke of years spent hiding, running, and surviving. Her gray-blue eyes—the exact same eyes that had stared up at Alessandro from row 14—kept darting anxiously toward the heavy glass front doors.
She checked her gold wristwatch for the hundredth time.
Flight AF006 landed two hours ago, she thought, her heart hammering against her ribs. Where is Sophie? Where is the car service that was supposed to meet them?
"Relax, Camille," a smooth, silken voice purred from behind her.
Camille flinched, turning around to find a tall, immaculately dressed man in his late fifties standing uncomfortably close. Victor Vitali. He held a crystal glass of champagne, his silver hair neatly combed, his eyes gleaming with a predatory, sadistic amusement.
"I don't know what you're playing at, Victor," Camille whispered fiercely, keeping her voice low so the surrounding patrons wouldn't overhear. "You promised that if I brought the paintings to New York, my daughter would be placed safely on that flight. She was supposed to land hours ago."
Victor took a slow sip of his champagne, smiling like a cat playing with a cornered mouse. "Ah, commitments in our family can be so fluid, my dear Camille. You see, I never intended for you to keep the girl. You should have known better than to hide a Vitali heir from the family for six years. Blood always finds its way home."
Camille’s face drained of all color. She slammed her wine glass down onto a nearby pedestal. "If you touch a single hair on her head—"
"You'll do what?" Victor interrupted, his smile vanishing, replaced by a dark, menacing sneer. "Call the police? File a report? In my city? Your daughter is currently sitting comfortably waiting for her mother. And the moment you sign over the remaining equity of your European estate to my holding company, I might consider introducing you two again."
Before Camille could lunge at him, the heavy glass doors of the gallery suddenly blew inward, driven by a violent gust of wind—and a terrifying, overwhelming wave of absolute silence.
The casual chatter of the art patrons died instantly.
The gallery security guards stationed near the entrance didn't even have time to reach for their holsters. Three massive, black-clad enforcers swept through the doorway with military precision, neutralizing the guards in a fraction of a second without firing a single shot.
And then, stepping out of the rainy night into the blinding lights of the gallery, came Alessandro Vitali.
He wore his heavy black overcoat open, his dark suit immaculate, his face carved entirely out of cold, unyielding granite. The icy fury radiating from him was so palpable that several gallery guests instinctively backed away, pressing themselves against the brick walls.
Victor Vitali froze, his champagne glass slipping from his fingers and shattering across the hardwood floor with a sharp, explosive crash.
"A-Alessandro?" Victor stammered, color entirely abandoning his face. "You... you were supposed to be dead. The hospital report—"
"The hospital report was written by men who didn't survive long enough to correct it," Alessandro said softly. His voice carried across the silent room like a death sentence.
He walked slowly, deliberately toward the center of the gallery, his eyes locked onto Victor with a lethality that made the older man stumble backward.
Camille stood paralyzed, her hands pressed over her mouth, tears instantly flooding her eyes as she stared at the man she had spent six years praying she would never see again—and yet had never stopped loving.
"A-Alessandro..." Camille choked out, her voice trembling violently. "How... how are you here?"
Alessandro stopped just two feet away from her. For a fraction of a second, the iron mask of the mafia kingpin cracked. His dark eyes softened as they swept over her face, drinking in the reality that she was standing right in front of him, alive and breathing.
"You should have told me you were carrying my child, Camille," Alessandro said, his voice dropping into a raw, intense register.
"I had to!" she sobbed, tears spilling down her cheeks. "Victor threatened to kill her before she took her first breath if I stayed in your world! I ran to Paris to keep her safe!"
Alessandro’s gaze snapped back to Victor, who was now trembling violently, desperately reaching into his jacket for a hidden revolver.
Before Victor’s fingers could even brush the grip of the gun, Alessandro’s hand moved like lightning. A sleek, suppressed pistol cleared his holster, and a single, muffled shot cracked through the air.
May you like
Victor screamed, dropping to his knees as a bullet pierced through his shoulder, pinning him to the hardwood floor in a pool of blood.
The gallery patrons fled in absolute terror, scrambling out the back exit, leaving only the echoes of panic bouncing off the white-washed walls.
