Chapter 9 - The Blood We Choose
Ethan did not back away from the weeping man on the floor.
The eight-year-old stepped forward and placed his small hands gently onto Adrian's shaking shoulders.
"Dad, I'm sorry," Ethan cried, his small voice cracking with unbearable guilt.
"I'm sorry my name is wrong."
"I'm sorry I don't belong to you."
The words shattered whatever remained of Adrian's defenses.
Adrian lifted his head, his face streaked with tears and red with grief.
He looked at the boy whose diapers he had changed, whose fevers he had tended, and whose nightmares he had chased away in the dark.
He remembered teaching Ethan how to ride a bicycle on the private asphalt paths of the estate.
He remembered the child running into his study with a crude crayon drawing of two stick figures holding hands under a yellow sun.
Blood had not sat beside that bed when Ethan had scarlet fever at age four.
Blood had not taught the boy how to read his first book.
Adrian reached out with trembling hands and pulled Ethan fiercely against his chest.
He buried his face in the boy's neck, holding him so tight that the child gasped for breath.
"Don't you ever say that, Ethan," Adrian choked out through his tears.
"Don't you ever apologize to me."
"You are my son."
"Do you hear me?"
"You are my boy."
"No piece of paper, no dead bloodline, and no old man's sin will ever change that."
Ethan clung to Adrian's neck, burying his face in his father's soaked collar.
"You still want me, Dad?" Ethan sobbed into his coat.
"I will tear the world apart before I ever let anyone take you from me," Adrian promised with ferocious, terrifying conviction.
"You are a Russo."
"You are my son until the day I die."
Ava stood nearby, pressing her hand against her mouth as tears spilled down her own cheeks.
She had spent seven months working in the Russo mansion, seeing Adrian as nothing more than a ruthless criminal whose name brought terror to the city.
In this dark, forgotten bunker thirty feet below the earth, she saw a real father.
She saw a man whose love for a child was stronger than fifty years of blood feuds and mafia pride.
Vincent picked up his wooden cane from the floor and leaned against the wall, watching the embrace with unreadable eyes.
The old man did not apologize.
He did not offer words of comfort.
He simply watched, knowing that the storm they had escaped was nothing compared to the one approaching above.
Adrian finally pulled back and wiped Ethan's tears with the rough pads of his thumbs.
He looked at Ava with eyes that were clear, cold, and utterly determined.
"Ava," Adrian said, his voice regaining its command.
"Take Ethan to the back storage bay."
"There is a secondary escape tunnel that leads into the drainage canals two miles south."
"Find the emergency flare kit and the waterproof bags."
"What about you, Mr. Russo?" Ava asked, sensing the finality in his tone.
"Julian knows the name of the game now," Adrian replied, standing up to his full height.
"Which means the mercenaries hunting Ethan are not going to search the city forever."
"They know my father built this foundry."
"They will be here before sunrise."
Before Adrian could finish his sentence, a dull, concussive thud vibrated through the reinforced concrete ceiling above them.
Dust and flakes of rusted paint drifted down from the iron girders like grey snow.
The low-voltage amber lights flickered once and died completely, leaving the room illuminated only by the faint green glow of the military radio.
The external perimeter tripwires had been triggered.
Adrian drew a combat knife from his tactical boot and picked up his pistol from the floor.
He racked the slide with a clean, lethal click.
"They found us," Vincent said from the shadows, his voice completely devoid of fear.
"How many?" Ava asked, pulling Ethan behind her back instinctively.
Adrian walked over to the communications desk and pulled up the analog perimeter monitor.
The small cathode-ray tube screen flared with black-and-white static before resolving into a grain-filled camera feed.
Six heavy tactical vehicles had breached the perimeter fencing of the old iron works.
Dozens of armed operatives in dark night-camo gear were deploying across the railway tracks with assault rifles raised.
At the front of the convoy stood a tall, broad-shouldered man in a tailored dark overcoat.
He wore no helmet.
His hair was slicked back, and his features were sharp, aristocratic, and merciless.
Vincent stepped beside Adrian and looked at the miniature screen.
The old man's breath caught in his throat for the first time that night.
"Salvatore Vance," Vincent whispered with ancient dread.
"Who is he?" Adrian asked, not taking his eyes off the monitor.
"The former commander of the Moretti private guard," Vincent explained in a low murmur.
"The man who swore a blood oath nine years ago to find his master's missing grandchild."
"He did not come to negotiate, Adrian."
"He brought an entire army to reclaim his blood."
On the screen, Salvatore Vance raised a high-power megaphone toward the entrance of the foundry.
Even through thirty feet of reinforced concrete and lead plating, his amplified voice cut through the air like a butcher's blade.
"Vincent Russo!" the voice echoed from above.
May you like
"We know the boy is down there."
"Send out the Moretti heir within five minutes, or we will flood the ventilation shafts with thermite and burn you all alive in your iron grave."
