Chapter 6 - The Cleansing of the House
By three o'clock in the morning, the emergency generators had been restored, bathing the estate in bright, harsh light.
Dominic and a squad of twelve heavily armed enforcers cleared the bodies from the hallway, stripping the mercenaries of their gear while forensic cleanup teams scrubbed the marble floors until no trace of blood remained.
In the grand study downstairs, Marco sat bound to a heavy wooden chair in the center of the room. His silver hair was disheveled, his face pale as paper, sweat dripping from his chin as he looked at the four enforcers standing guard around him.
The heavy double doors swung open.
Anthony stepped into the room.
He had showered and changed into a crisp white shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing the dark tattoos stretching up his forearms. His expression was calm—a terrifying, frozen calm that made Marco shudder in his bonds.
I walked in behind him, holding a sleeping Luca in my arms, wrapped in a heavy fleece blanket. Anthony had insisted I stay beside him while he dealt with the traitor. He wanted Marco to see exactly who he had failed to kill.
“Anthony... please,” Marco stammered, his voice cracking with desperation. “Julian Moretti threatened my son! He said he’d kill my grandchildren in Jersey if I didn't give him the entry codes! I had no choice!”
Anthony walked over to his heavy mahogany desk, ignoring his uncle’s pleas. He picked up a crystal decanter, poured two fingers of scotch into a glass, and took a slow sip.
“You always had a choice, Marco,” Anthony said softly, setting the glass down. “You could have come to me. You could have let the family protect your blood. Instead, you sold out my son. You sold out Elena. And you brought armed mercenaries into the house my father built.”
“I’m your father’s brother!” Marco wept, tears cutting tracks through the dust on his cheeks. “You can’t spill family blood, Anthony! It’s against the code!”
Anthony walked over to Marco’s chair. He leaned down, placing his hands on the armrests, bringing his face inches from the old man’s.
“The moment you targeted a child in his bed, Marco,” Anthony whispered, his voice dark enough to chill the blood in a man’s veins, “you stopped being family. You became a disease.”
Anthony raised his hand slightly, nodding to Dominic standing near the wall.
Dominic stepped forward, pulling a heavy silver revolver from his waistband, and placed the cold barrel against the back of Marco’s neck.
“Take him to the harbor,” Anthony commanded softly, turning his back on his uncle. “Make sure the Moretti family finds what’s left of him on their dock by morning.”
“Anthony! No! Anthony!” Marco screamed as Dominic and two enforcers dragged the chair out through the side exit, his cries echoing down the hall until a heavy iron door slammed shut, cutting off the sound forever.
The study fell dead silent.
Anthony stood by the window, staring out into the dark, rain-soaked gardens. His broad shoulders were tense, the heavy burden of his empire weighing visibly upon him.
I set the sleeping Luca down on the velvet leather sofa, pulling the blanket up to his chin, and walked over to stand behind Anthony.
I didn't say anything. I simply reached out and wrapped my arms around his waist from behind, pressing my cheek against his broad, warm back.
Anthony went still for a second. Then, a long, deep sigh escaped his lips. He turned in my arms, wrapping his large hands around my waist, pulling me against his chest as he looked down at me with an expression of profound, soul-stirring gratitude.
“You shouldn't have to see this, Elena,” he murmured, his thumb gently tracing the curve of my lip. “This world is dirty. It’s bloody. I wanted to keep you clean.”
“I don't care about clean, Anthony,” I replied, looking up into his golden eyes with absolute conviction. “I care about you. I care about Luca. If this is your world, then I’m standing in it with you.”
A slow, breathtaking smile broke across his scarred face—a smile that illuminated his dark features like the sun breaking through a storm.
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“You really aren't ever leaving, are you?” he whispered softly.
“Not a chance,” I smiled back.
