Chapter 10 - The Shadow of the Castellano
The serene peace of the northern terrace lasted until the final days of August, when the heat over Lake Michigan turned oppressive and thick with sudden summer squalls.
Mateo had taken his very first steps three days earlier, wobbling bravely across the Persian rugs in Dominic’s restored library straight into Sophie’s outstretched arms.
The laughter inside the manor had grown loud and genuine, driving out the ghosts of the past.
Yet Dominic never stopped checking the perimeter security feeds before he went to bed.
He had severed Julian’s corrupt networks, but the underworld of Chicago was never an empty vacuum.
When one titan fell, lesser hyenas always crept out of the shadows to test the fences.
It was a Tuesday afternoon when the phone on the library desk rang.
It was not the secured satellite line Dominic used for family logistics, but the direct private landline that only three living men in the state of Illinois had access to.
Dominic answered on the second ring, holding Mateo on his hip while Sophie was organizing children’s books on the lower mahogany shelves.
“Speak,” Dominic said.
The voice on the other end was raspy, trembling with the wheeze of an eighty-year-old heavy smoker.
It was Don Salvatore Moretti.
“Dominic,” the old man rasped, his voice unusually strained.
“You need to come down to the warehouse district on 31st Street.”
“Now.”
Dominic’s posture stiffened immediately, his easy paternal warmth vanishing into cold stone.
“What happened, Salvatore?”
“Carlo Castellano arrived from New York an hour ago,” Salvatore whispered, glancing around nervously on his end.
“He brought six armed capos and a sealed court order from the Commission.”
“They are claiming Clara’s estate owes thirty million dollars in unpaid maritime insurance bonds from her father’s shipping lines.”
“And worse, Dominic…”
The old don hesitated, coughing violently into the receiver.
“Say it,” Dominic commanded, his voice dropping into a razor-thin growl.
“Castellano is claiming Dr. Robert Sterling didn't act alone with Julian,” Salvatore said, the words heavy with impending war.
“He’s claiming Julian was working under contract for the Castellano syndicate.”
“And he wants custody of Mateo as collateral for the debt.”
Dominic’s fingers tightened so violently around the heavy brass receiver that the metal groaned under the pressure.
Sophie stopped her work, turning around immediately.
She didn't need to hear the caller’s words; she saw the sudden darkness that swept across Dominic’s face.
The infant felt the shift in energy, whimpering softly and burying his head against his father’s neck.
Dominic took a slow, deep breath, smoothing his hand over Mateo’s soft hair.
“Salvatore,” Dominic said with terrifying stillness.
“Tell Carlo Castellano to stay exactly where he is.”
“I will be there in thirty minutes.”
Dominic hung up the phone.
He walked over to Sophie, transferring Mateo gently into her arms.
His touch was soft, but his eyes were burning with cold, focused fire.
“Who was that?” Sophie asked, her heart tightening with dread.
“A vulture from New York,” Dominic replied, his voice chillingly calm.
“Carlo Castellano.”
“He’s Clara’s distant cousin, and the head of the East Coast syndicate.”
“He claims Clara’s family owed him money, and he’s using Julian’s treason as an excuse to seize our shipping lines.”
“He mentioned Mateo, didn't he?” Sophie whispered, her arms tightening protectively around the baby.
Dominic leaned down, his lips pressing a firm, lingering kiss against Sophie’s temple, then against Mateo’s forehead.
“Nobody touches my son,” Dominic said, pulling his tailored charcoal suit jacket off the chair and sliding his arms into the sleeves.
“Nobody touches our family.”
“Dominic, wait,” Sophie said, grabbing his forearm.
“Don't let them bait you into an ambush.”
“This is what Julian wanted—to force you into a reckless war where you make a fatal mistake.”
Dominic looked down at her hand on his sleeve.
The anger in his face softened into genuine tenderness.
“Julian made the mistake of thinking I was a monster who only knew how to break bones,” Dominic said softly.
“He forgot that Clara and I built an empire before he even learned how to wash dirty money.”
“Marco is bringing two armored cars to the front portico.”
“Teresa will lock the nursery doors behind you.”
“Do not leave this room until you hear my key in the lock.”
Sophie nodded, her jaw set with unwavering resolve.
“Come back to us,” she said.
“Always,” Dominic promised.
Within five minutes, the roar of two V8 engines rumbled across the courtyard as Dominic’s convoy sped down the winding driveway toward the Chicago expressway.
Sophie carried Mateo to the large arched window, watching the tail lights vanish beyond the iron gates.
The afternoon sky was turning a sickly shade of yellow-green, the unmistakable herald of a severe Midwestern thunderstorm.
Down in the grand foyer, the heavy oak doors clicked shut as the exterior deadbolts engaged.
Teresa stepped into the nursery, her silver hair slightly disheveled, carrying a silver tray with warm chamomile tea and sliced fruit.
“The security team has engaged the perimeter alarms, Miss Sophie,” the old housekeeper murmured, setting the tray on the low table.
“Fourteen men on the grounds, all veterans who served Master Dominic’s father.”
“Castellano is a hyena,” Sophie said, sitting on the glider and letting Mateo play with a wooden puzzle ring.
“He waited six months until the dust settled, hoping Dominic was vulnerable.”
“The Castellano family was always greedy,” Teresa sighed, shaking her head.
“When Miss Clara married Dominic, old Carlo tried to block the union.”
“He wanted Clara to marry his own eldest son to absorb her family’s real estate portfolio.”
“When Clara chose Dominic, Carlo swore he would take everything she owned one day.”
A sudden, low rumble of thunder shook the heavy window panes.
Mateo paused his play, looking up at the ceiling with wide eyes.
“Shh, it’s just the thunder, sweetheart,” Sophie whispered, stroking his cheek.
Suddenly, the lights in the nursery flickered once.
Twice.
And then snapped off completely.
The emergency backup generator in the basement whirred to life, but before the secondary circuit could engage, a loud, muffled electrical pop echoed from the rear courtyard.
The hum of the generator died instantly.
The nursery was plunged into total, suffocating darkness, illuminated only by the sickly flashes of lightning outside the window.
Teresa gasped, dropping her tray to the carpet with a clatter of porcelain.
“The main power line…” Teresa stammered, her voice shaking with terror.
“Someone cut the underground cables!”
Sophie rose from the rocking chair with lightning speed, scooping Mateo tightly against her chest.
Her heart pounded, but her training and instincts took over immediately.
She reached into the bottom drawer of the changing table and pulled out the tactical flashlight Dominic had given her.
She clicked it on, keeping the beam pointed strictly at the floor so as not to silhouette them against the arched window.
“Teresa, quiet,” Sophie whispered sharply.
From the corridor outside, a faint scuffle echoed through the floorboards.
A suppressed gunshot.
Pfft.
Then the heavy, sickening thud of a body sliding down the mahogany wainscoting.
Someone was inside the house.
Not Julian’s loud, clumsy tactical mercenaries.
These were professional, silent infiltrators who had bypassed the perimeter guards without raising an alarm.
Castellano had never intended to negotiate with Dominic in Chicago.
The meeting with Don Salvatore was a diversion.
A calculated distraction to draw the King of Chicago away from his fortress while an elite extraction team moved in to take the true prize:
Dominic Moretti’s only heir.
Sophie didn't hesitate.
She remembered the secret passage Dominic had used the night of the fire.
She grabbed Teresa by the arm, pushing the old woman toward the concealed mirror panel beside the armoire.
“Into the passage, now!” Sophie ordered.
Teresa fumbled with the hidden release latch, her fingers trembling violently.
Click.
The mirror panel swung inward an inch.
At that exact moment, the heavy oak door of the nursery was kicked inward with terrifying force.
The brass deadbolts sheared off in a shower of splintered wood.
In the threshold stood a tall, slender man wearing black tactical gear, night-vision goggles pushed up on his forehead, and a silenced automatic submachine gun raised to his shoulder.
May you like
His cold gray eyes locked onto Sophie and the baby in her arms.
“Hand over the boy, Miss Lane,” the intruder said in a smooth, chilling New York accent.
