Chapter 5 - The Wolves at the Gate
The Maybach rolled through the iron gates of the estate, but the heavy wrought-iron barriers did not swing shut behind it. Instead, three black SUVs tailgated the limousine, squeezing through the entrance before the automatic locks could engage.
In the back seat of the Maybach, Emma had fallen asleep against Lorenzo’s shoulder, her small hand still clutching the paper badge that read Borrowed Daddy. Her breathing was soft and steady, completely oblivious to the sudden tension that had gripped the car.
Lorenzo looked out the tinted window. The three SUVs fanned out, blocking the main driveway and cutting off any exit toward the highway.
“Driver,” Lorenzo said, his voice terrifyingly calm. “Kill the engine.”
“Boss,” the driver stammered, his hands gripping the steering wheel. “It’s Bianchi’s crest on the lead vehicle. We’re boxed in.”
Lorenzo gently lifted Emma, placing her head on a small cashmere pillow on the seat. He adjusted his jacket, ensuring his own weapon rested comfortably against his ribs. He pushed the door open and stepped out into the crisp evening air, the sound of his shoes crunching on the gravel echoing like gunshots in the courtyard.
From the lead SUV, Don Vittorio Bianchi stepped out, flanked by four armed men holding suppressed submachine guns. Bianchi wore a white linen suit that looked absurdly out of place against the gothic architecture of the Duca mansion, but his smile was sharp and predatory.
“Lorenzo!” Bianchi called out, spreading his arms wide as if greeting a long-lost brother. “Playing babysitter now? I must admit, the Manhattan underworld is losing its edge if the great Duca is spending his Saturdays braiding hair in Queens.”
Lorenzo didn’t blink. He walked slowly toward the center of the courtyard, placing himself squarely between Bianchi’s men and the Maybach where Emma was sleeping.
“You have five seconds to turn your vehicles around and leave my property, Vittorio,” Lorenzo said, his voice cutting through the wind like a razor.
Bianchi chuckled, though his eyes remained cold and calculating. “Tough words for a man sitting on a ticking time bomb. You think you can hide behind your charity work? You think the Commission doesn't know about the girl inside that car? And more importantly... do you think we don’t know who her mother is?”
Lorenzo’s expression did not flicker, but inside his chest, his heart dropped a heavy beat. Clara.
“Mention her name again, and you won’t make it off this gravel,” Lorenzo said softly, a tone so intensely lethal that even Bianchi’s men took half a step back.
Bianchi’s smile faded. He signaled to one of his guards, who pulled a leather briefcase from the back of the SUV and dropped it heavily onto the ground.
May you like
“Open it,” Bianchi sneered. “It’s the ledger from fifteen years ago. The one your most loyal adviser, Marco Rossi, tried to burn. It has the names of the men who killed your wife, Isabella. And it has the name of the family sheltering the witness who saw it all.”
Lorenzo stared at the briefcase on the ground. The world around him seemed to tilt on its axis.
