Chapter 3 - THE BLOODLINE OF SALIERI
The declaration of war didn't come with a letter or a phone call; it came in the form of fire.
At 4:00 AM, three hours after I returned from Cicero, a bomb detonated at one of my primary shipping warehouses along the Chicago River. Millions of dollars in cargo went up in a towering plume of black smoke, lighting up the pre-dawn skyline.
I sat in my study, watching the flames roar on the television screen. Marco stood across from me, his face grim, holding a fresh slate of intelligence reports.
"It was Salieri’s hit squad," Marco said, his voice flat. "They used military-grade C4. Salieri is making his move, Antonio. He’s telling the other syndicates that you’re distraction-prone, that you’ve lost your edge because of... the girl and her mother."
"Let them think I've lost my edge," I said, taking a slow sip of black coffee. "Gather the captains. We strike their distribution hubs in West Chicago tonight. Burn everything to the ground."
"Antonio," Marco hesitated, stepping closer. "Sofia and the child... they aren't safe here anymore. Salieri knows she was Caldwell’s debtor. It won't take his intelligence long to figure out she’s staying in your main house. If they breach the perimeter—"
"No one breaches this perimeter and lives," I snapped, my eyes flashing with a cold fury that made even Marco take half a step back. "Double the guard on the gate. Put sniper teams on the roof. If a stray dog comes within fifty yards of this house without my clearance, put a bullet in it."
Later that morning, the heavy rain had cleared, leaving the estate wrapped in a thick, eerie fog. I walked down the long corridor toward the kitchen wing, my mind consumed with logistics, supply lines, and body counts.
As I passed the glass doors leading out to the courtyard, I stopped.
Sofia was outside, wearing a simple wool coat, sweeping fallen autumn leaves off the stone pathway. A few yards away, little Emma was sitting on the wooden steps, wearing her oversized sweater, playing with a set of plastic cup toys.
Despite the rain-soaked air, she was laughing—a tiny, bright sound that cut through the somber atmosphere of the mansion like a beam of sunlight through heavy clouds.
Sofia noticed me standing behind the glass and immediately dropped her broom, bowing her head nervously. "Mr. Moretti! I'm sorry... we were just getting some fresh air. We'll go inside right away—"
"Sofia," I said, opening the French doors and stepping onto the wet patio. "You don't need to apologize every time I see you."
She looked up timidly, tucking a strand of chestnut hair behind her ear. Her face looked slightly fuller than it had four days ago, the dark circles under her eyes beginning to fade, but the deep-seated anxiety of a hunted woman remained.
"I... I just don't know how to act here, sir," she admitted softly, her voice barely above a whisper. "We went from living in a drafty flat, terrified of the door knocking, to... this palace. I keep waiting to wake up and find out it was a dream. Or a trap."
"It's not a trap," I said flatly. "And you aren't a servant anymore."
Sofia blinked, startled. "What?"
"You are under my protection," I said, turning my gaze to Emma, who was now toddling over toward me, holding up a bright yellow fallen leaf. "That means you don't sweep the floors. You don't cook the meals unless you want to. My men are dying out there to keep this territory secure. The least you can do is let my staff take care of you."
Emma stopped at my feet, reaching up to press the damp yellow leaf against my trousers. "Look, Mr. Stone! It's gold! Like the sun!"
I looked down at the leaf, then down at the little girl who looked up at me without an ounce of fear in her wide brown eyes. Everyone in Chicago trembled when I entered a room. Bosses of rival families bled in the alleyways at my command. Yet this three-year-old saw me as nothing more than a giant who needed a yellow leaf.
I slowly crouched down on one knee, my expensive suit trousers pressing into the damp stone. I took the leaf from her tiny fingers.
"It's very bright, Emma," I said, my voice softer than I thought possible.
"It’s for your garden," she squeaked, pointing toward the overgrown sunflower plot in the distance. "So the dirt knows autumn is here."
Sofia gasped softly, stepping forward. "Emma! Don't bother Mr. Moretti—"
"It's fine," I cut Sofia off, standing up smoothly. I held the leaf carefully between my thumb and forefinger. "Thank you, Emma. I'll put it in a safe place."
Before Sofia could speak again, Charles rushed out onto the patio, his expression unusually panicked.
"Don Antonio," Charles said quickly, his voice tight. "You have an urgent call on the secure line. It’s Don Salieri himself."
My expression hardened back into stone. I looked down at Emma, who was now smiling up at me, then looked at Sofia, whose face had gone pale again at the sound of the name.
"Go inside," I told Sofia firmly. "Take Emma to the upper living room. Stay away from the windows."
Sofia nodded frantically, scooping Emma up into her arms and rushing into the house.
I walked back to my private study, picked up the heavy brass telephone receiver, and pressed it to my ear.
"Salieri," I growled.
A heavy, raspy laughter echoed through the speaker—the voice of Old Don Salieri, a man who had ruled the South Side mob for forty years with absolute brutality.
"Antonio," Salieri sneered. "I hear you've been busy. Caldwell is dead. Frankie Vane is dead. Three of my supply trucks were intercepted in Cicero this morning. You're making a lot of noise for a man who used to hide in his mansion crying over his dead wife."
"If you have something to say, Don Salieri, say it," I replied, my hands gripping the arm of my leather chair so hard the wood groaned. "Or are you just calling to tell me where to send your obituary?"
"Arrogant boy," Salieri hissed. "You think you're untouchable inside those high stone walls? You think hiding that mechanic’s widow and her half-breed brat makes you a saint? I know everything that happens in your house, Antonio. I know she’s sleeping in your guest suite. I know the little girl plays in your dead daughter’s garden."
My heart stopped. Cold rage, pure and blinding, flooded through my veins.
"If you speak their names again," I whispered, every word laced with lethal intent, "I will skin you alive in front of your own family."
"Threats won't save them, Moretti," Salieri laughed darkly. "You made a mistake bringing them into your home. They are your weakness now. You lost your first family to a bomb because you were slow. Let's see how fast you are when I burn that mansion to the ground with your new little family inside."
Click.
The line went dead.
I slammed the receiver back onto the cradle, shattering the plastic casing. I stood up, breathing heavily, my mind racing through every security vulnerability of the estate.
May you like
Salieri didn't just have spies on the street—he had someone inside. Someone had told him about Emma playing in the garden. Someone had told him about Sofia staying in the guest suite.
There was a traitor in Moretti Manor.
