Chapter 3 - Blood in the Snow
The tension in the study thickened until it tasted like copper and ash.
Alessandro stood up so violently his leather chair scraped loudly against the hardwood floor. The easy, curious demeanor he had worn moments ago was completely gone, replaced by the lethal focus of a general preparing for total war.
“Who gave the order?” Alessandro asked, his voice a low, vibrating hum of suppressed fury.
“Salvatore Russo,” Mateo replied, wiping sweat from his brow despite the winter chill in the mansion. “He’s testing us, Boss. He thinks your father’s passing made us weak. He thinks he can carve up our territory while we’re wintering on the estate.”
Alessandro buttoned his black overcoat with cold, precise movements. He walked around the desk, his presence dominating the room to the point where Sophia felt the air leave her lungs. He didn't look at Mateo; his eyes locked onto Sophia, who was frozen in place near the door.
“Lillian!” Alessandro shouted toward the hallway.
The head housekeeper appeared instantly, her face pale. “Yes, Boss?”
“Move Sophia and her daughter to the panic room in the lower East Wing immediately. Double the guard rotation at every perimeter door. No one enters or leaves without my direct authorization.”
“Understood, sir,” Lillian said, grabbing Sophia by the arm with surprising strength. “Come along, girl.”
“Wait,” Sophia stammered, pulling back slightly. “What about Emma? Is she safe?”
Alessandro stopped pacing toward the door. He turned his head slightly, his dark eyes softening by a fraction—just enough for Sophia to notice.
“Your daughter is safer with Bruno than she would be behind five feet of reinforced steel,” Alessandro said flatly. “Take the dog with you.”
“What?” Mateo blurted out, staring at his boss as if he had lost his mind. “Boss, Bruno is a weapon! You can't put him in a confined space with a civilian—!”
“Bruno goes where the girl goes,” Alessandro cut him off with a finality that brooked no argument. He looked directly at the massive Cane Corso, which had risen to its feet and was standing alert, staring at the door. “Heels, boy. Guard.”
To Mateo’s utter astonishment, the scarred, vicious war dog didn't growl or snap. Bruno trotted over, flanked Sophia’s side, and nudged her hand with his wet nose, waiting for her to move.
“Move, Sophia,” Alessandro ordered softly. “I have business to attend to.”
Within minutes, Sophia found herself locked inside the reinforced lower-level suite—a luxurious subterranean bunker outfitted with monitors, surveillance feeds, and plush velvet seating, designed for family members during turf wars. But her heart wasn't in the comfort; it was pounding against her ribs as she watched the security monitors on the wall.
On screen one, Alessandro Moretti walked out into the falling snow, flanked by a dozen armed men clad in tactical gear. They piled into a convoy of black SUVs that roared down the winding estate driveway, heading straight into the heart of Chicago.
On screen two, the courtyard gates flickered.
Sophia’s breath hitched. A fleet of unmarked black sedans was idling outside the wrought-iron gates of the Moretti estate. Men in heavy winter coats stepped out, pulling shotguns and submachine guns from beneath their wool coats.
“They’re here,” Sophia whispered.
Bruno let out a low, vibrating growl that shook the glass of the coffee table. Emma, sitting safely on the sofa playing with her teddy bear, looked up and patted the dog’s tail.
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“Don't be scared, puppy,” Emma cooed. “Mommy is right here.”
Suddenly, the security feed erupted into chaos. Gunfire cracked through the crisp night air, shattering the silent snow with lethal orange flashes. The war for the Moretti empire had officially begun, and Sophia and her toddler were trapped right in the crosshairs.
