Chapter 8 - The Bloodline Fractures
Luca yanked the heavy doors open, his knuckles whitening around the checkered grip of his weapon.
Vincent Torino stood in the dim corridor, his forehead glistening with a sheen of cold sweat.
The seasoned enforcer looked genuinely rattled for the first time in thirty years of service.
“What happened to my father?” Luca demanded, grabbing Vincent by his tailored lapels.
“His heart gave out right after the guests cleared the courtyard,” Vincent reported breathlessly.
“Dr. Valenti is with him now, administering emergency adrenaline, but he says the Don is fading fast.”
“And the north gate?” Luca snapped, already marching down the marble corridor with Vincent in tow.
“Grigori Vulov didn't leave the county,” Vincent explained, struggling to match Luca’s furious stride.
“Three black SUVs were spotted cutting the fiber optic cables near the northern perimeter fence.”
“They are testing our response times before launching a full-scale assault.”
Luna did not hesitate.
She threw off the cashmere blanket, abandoned her fear, and followed the two men into the hallway.
She was still dressed in her black uniform, her sneakers squeaking softly against the cold polished stone.
“Luna, stay inside the suite,” Luca ordered over his shoulder without breaking his rapid pace.
“I am not a fragile porcelain doll, Luca,” Luna fired back, her voice ringing with unexpected steel.
“Your father is dying, and the staff will panic if they don't see someone holding the house together.”
Luca glanced back at her, a flicker of fierce admiration flashing through his grim expression.
He reached down, snatched a small snub-nosed revolver from an alcove holster, and pressed it into her hand.
“Keep the safety off,” he said bluntly. “If anyone wearing street clothes approaches you without Vincent or me, put two rounds into their chest.”
Luna looked down at the cold, heavy steel resting in her palm.
Her life as an invisible housemaid had officially ended; the brutal underworld had swallowed her whole.
They reached the west wing library, where the heavy scent of rubbing alcohol and copper hung in the air.
Don Salvatore lay stretched out across the long leather chesterfield, his shirt unbuttoned to reveal his sunken chest.
Dr. Valenti was frantically packing portable defibrillator pads back into his leather medical kit.
The elderly physician looked up, slowly shaking his gray head with grim resignation.
Luca froze in the doorway, the pistol in his hand suddenly hanging loose at his side.
“How long?” Luca asked, his voice cracking into a dry, hollow whisper.
“Minutes, Luca,” the doctor replied quietly, stepping back to give the family privacy. “His cardiac tissue has ruptured.”
“Medical science cannot repair what is already dead.”
Don Salvatore’s eyelids fluttered open, his milky gaze wandering until it locked onto his son.
Luca dropped to his knees beside the sofa, grasping his father’s cold, withered hand in both of his.
“Father, I am here,” Luca whispered, leaning close to the old man’s gray lips.
Don Salvatore struggled to draw breath, a painful wheeze rattling deep within his lungs.
His trembling fingers pointed toward the door, where Luna stood with the small revolver gripped tightly.
“Come here... girl,” the dying Don rasped, blood flecking his cracked lips.
Luna stepped forward on trembling legs, kneeling beside Luca on the blood-spattered rug.
The old tyrant took Luna’s small hand, placing it firmly over Luca’s broad, scarred knuckles.
“The wolves... are coming through the storm,” Salvatore gasped, his grip surprisingly tight for a dying man.
“Do not yield... an inch of the city, Luca.”
“Trust only her... she carries no greed... no poison.”
The old Don turned his dying gaze toward Vincent, who stood silently in the shadows behind them.
“Torino...” Salvatore wheezed, his chest seizing with a final, violent spasm.
“Protect them... with your life... or answer to me... in hell.”
Don Salvatore Moretti’s eyes rolled back, his hand went completely limp, and his final breath escaped into the silence.
Luca bowed his head against his father’s chest, his shoulders shaking with silent, agonizing grief.
In the heavy silence that followed, Luna noticed something chilling from the corner of her eye.
May you like
Vincent Torino stood near the grandfather clock, looking down at the dead Don with no sorrow in his eyes.
Instead, the veteran enforcer reached into his breast pocket and tapped three silent digits onto a hidden burner phone.
