Chapter 5 - The Confrontation
The front doors of Corsaro House flew open at noon.
Rafe Corsaro strode into the grand foyer, flanked by two armed security guards and Dr. Prentiss, who clutched a leather medical bag like a shield.
“Emilio!” Rafe shouted, his voice echoing off the marble pillars. “The board in Chicago is calling every thirty minutes! Where are the master ledgers? If you’re playing games because of some medical delusion—”
“The games are over, Rafe,” a voice echoed from the top of the grand staircase.
Rafe stopped. Dr. Prentiss stepped back, his face draining of all color.
Emilio stood at the top of the stairs. He wasn't leaning against the banister. He stood completely upright, holding the heavy leather ledger in his left hand. Behind him stood two federal marshals in full tactical gear, their hands resting on their holsters.
“You’re looking well, doctor,” Emilio said, descending the steps with slow, deliberate precision. “Though I suspect your medical license is going to look considerably less impressive once the federal grand jury reviews your prescription logs.”
Rafe lunged forward, his face twisting into a snarl. “You absolute fool! You’ve destroyed everything! Without Chicago, the docks belong to the state in forty-eight hours!”
“Let them belong to the state,” Emilio said, reaching the bottom of the staircase and stopping three feet from his brother. “At least the state doesn't murder its own family for a ledger.”
Rafe’s hand dropped toward his coat pocket, where a snub-nosed revolver rested against his ribs.
Before his fingers could wrap around the grip, a shadow moved from behind the marble pillar near the doorway.
Etta stepped forward, holding her heavy iron cleaning bucket with both hands, and swung it with brutal, calculated force straight into the side of Rafe’s knee.
A sickening crack echoed through the foyer.
Rafe shrieked, collapsing onto the marble floor as his knee buckled backward. The revolver slid across the polished tiles, coming to a stop near the boots of a federal marshal.
The marshals moved instantly, pinning Rafe face-down against the floor while Dr. Prentiss raised his hands above his head, trembling so violently his medical bag slipped from his fingers and crashed onto the floor, spilling syringes and vials across the white stone.
Silence settled over the grand foyer once again.
Emilio looked down at his brother, then slowly turned his gaze toward Etta.
She was standing quietly by the pillar, her hands resting on the handle of the iron bucket, breathing evenly.
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“That,” Emilio said quietly, “was not in your job description.”
“I’m a textile restorer by training,” Etta said, her voice completely steady. “I know how to handle stubborn stains.”
