Chapter 9 - The Blood on the Marble
For two agonizing hours, we sat in the sterile, fluorescent-lit bunker.
The bunker was equipped with monitors displaying live security feeds from every corner of the estate.
I watched in terrifying detail as Luca Castellano turned his home into a slaughterhouse for the Chicago mob.
He moved through the smoke-filled hallways like a nightmare, flanked by his elite loyalists. He knew every secret passage, every alcove, every blind spot in the mansion. One by one, the Chicago hitmen fell before his relentless, surgical defense.
On the main foyer camera, I saw him finally face Don Alberto Moretti.
Alberto was a heavy, silver-haired man surrounded by his two remaining bodyguards. Luca stepped out from behind the grand marble fireplace, his suit torn, his face covered in soot and blood, but his posture absolute and unyielding.
Words were exchanged—cold, final words that I couldn't hear through the silent monitor feed.
Alberto raised a gun.
Luca was faster. Two flashes of light erupted from Luca's weapon.
Alberto Moretti collapsed onto the bloody white marble of the foyer floor. The remaining Chicago bodyguards threw down their weapons, raising their hands in total surrender.
The war was over.
Minutes later, the hydraulic locks on the titanium door hissed open.
The door swung back, revealing Luca standing in the dim hallway light.
He looked spent. His black sweater was torn at the shoulder, a deep cut bleeding along his hairline, his breathing heavy. But as his dark eyes found mine in the bunker, the exhaustion evaporated from his face.
"Luca!" I cried out, abandoning my cane, rushing across the concrete floor and throwing myself into his arms.
He caught me, pulling me tight against his broad, warm chest, burying his face in my hair as a ragged breath escaped his lungs.
"I told you," Luca whispered rasply, his heavy arms wrapping around me like iron bands. "I told you no one would touch you in my house."
I pulled back, my hands framing his blood-stained face, tears running down my cheeks. "You're hurt."
"It's just paint," he murmured, a tired, beautiful smile touching his lips.
Emma toddled out of the bunker, clutching her giant stuffed bear that Dante had brought down earlier. She looked at Luca's messy face, then walked up and tapped his knee.
"You have dirt on your face, Mr. Prince," Emma said sternly.
May you like
Luca dropped to one knee, ignoring the pain in his wounded shoulder, and pulled the little girl into his arms along with me, holding us both close against his heart.
"Then you'll have to help me wash it off, little one," Luca whispered softly.
