Chapter 6 - THE GUARDIAN'S RAGE
"Look at you, Don Antonio," Big Mike sneered, his thick finger tightening slightly around the trigger of his revolver. "The terrifying 'Stone' of Chicago, reduced to begging for a maid’s bastard. Drop the piece, or I open her head right here."
Emma was sobbing hysterically, her tiny body shaking violently. "Mr. Stone! Mr. Stone, help me! Daisy is scared!"
The sound of her small, terrified voice cracked open something deep inside my soul—a dam that had held back three years of repressed grief, guilt, and fury. I looked at the silver watch clutched tightly in her tiny hand. The watch was still ticking.
"I promised her," I said softly, my voice unnaturally steady. "I promised her as long as that watch ticks, I am watching over her."
"I don't give a damn about your promises!" Russo yelled, backing toward the narrow escape tunnel entrance at the rear of the safe room. "Drop the gun!"
I lowered my pistol slowly, pointing the barrel at the floor. "Okay. Okay. Just don't hurt the child."
Russo let out a dark, arrogant laugh, lowering his guard for a fraction of a second as he prepared to step backward into the dark tunnel. "You've grown soft, Moretti. Salieri was right. You're an old man crying over—"
He didn't get to finish the sentence.
In one fluid, blinding movement, I didn't shoot at Russo—I threw the heavy steel pistol directly at his face.
The heavy custom Kimber .45 struck Russo squarely across the bridge of his nose with sickening force. Bones shattered. Blood sprayed. Instinctively, Russo reeled back, his revolver discharging harmlessly into the concrete ceiling as his hand flew to his shattered face.
In that split second, before Emma could hit the floor, I closed the distance between us like a striking predator.
I scooped Emma out of the air with my left arm, pulling her tight against my chest, shielding her tiny body with my own heavy frame. With my right hand, I drew the slim hunting knife from my belt and drove it straight into Russo’s throat.
Russo gasped, his eyes widening in shock and horror as he collapsed onto his knees, choking on his own blood, before crashing heavily onto the concrete floor.
Silence fell over the safe room.
I stood there in the flickering emergency light, breathing heavily, holding the trembling three-year-old girl in my arms. Emma buried her face into the crook of my neck, her tiny arms wrapping around my neck with a grip so fierce it took my breath away.
"I got you," I whispered, my voice shaking. "I got you, little one. You're safe. Stone has got you."
On the floor, Sofia let out a weak groan, coming back to consciousness. She sat up, clutching her bruised temple, looking around the room in terror until her eyes landed on me holding Emma.
"Emma!" Sofia sobbed, crawling over on her hands and knees.
I slowly knelt down, placing Emma gently into her mother's waiting arms. Sofia hugged the child as if trying to merge their bodies into one, weeping hysterically, kissing Emma’s cheeks, her hair, her forehead.
"Thank you... oh God, Antonio, thank you!" Sofia cried, looking up at me through a veil of tears.
I stood up, wiping Russo’s blood off my blade before sheathing it. The tenderness in my expression vanished instantly, replaced by a dark, uncompromising vengeance.
"Charles!" I called out into the hallway.
Charles appeared in the doorway, his arm hastily bandaged. "Boss?"
"Escort Sofia and Emma to the panic room at the downtown safehouse," I commanded. "Take six of our best men. I don't care if you have to drive a tank through the city—get them there."
"And you, Don Antonio?" Charles asked.
I looked at the bloody corpse of Big Mike Russo, then down at the ruined estate that had once been my sanctuary.
"Salieri came into my home," I said, my voice cold enough to stop time. "He made my child cry. I am going to end the Salieri bloodline tonight."
Ten minutes later, I stood in the ruined courtyard of Moretti Manor. Sixty heavily armed Moretti enforcers, drawn from every district in Chicago, filled the driveway, standing beside a fleet of black armored SUVs. Marco stood at the front, a fresh tactical vest strapped over his chest, carrying a heavy assault rifle.
"Every crew is mobilized, Antonio," Marco reported, his eyes gleaming with anticipation. "The entire city knows what happened tonight. The other families are waiting to see who survives the night."
"There won't be anything left of Salieri to survive," I said, stepping into the lead SUV. "We go straight to his estate in Oak Park. No negotiations. No survivors."
As the fleet of black vehicles roared out of the iron gates and onto the rain-slicked highway, I reached into my pocket.
Alongside the crumpled drawing of the sunflower, I pulled out the threadbare rag doll—Daisy—which had fallen onto the floor during the struggle. I smoothed out the doll's worn fabric and rested it on the leather seat beside me.
May you like
For three years, I had been a ghost wandering through a graveyard of my own memories. But tonight, as we tore through the dark streets toward the final battle for Chicago, I was no longer a ghost.
I was the storm.
