Chapter 2 - The Lion at the Gates
The heavy tires of three black Cadillac Escalades crunched over the crushed limestone driveway of my Long Island estate.
I did not set Sophie down.
Instead, I shifted her into my left arm, letting her tiny fingers bury themselves into the lapel of my bespoke charcoal suit jacket. With my right hand, I reached inside my breast pocket and unclipped the holster of my customized Kimber .45. The cold steel felt familiar, grounding the volcanic fury surging through my veins.
"Daddy?" Sophie’s voice was barely a squeak against my throat. She could feel the vibration of my chest, the rigid tension in muscles that normally relaxed only when she climbed onto my lap to hear bedtime stories about magical dragons. "Are you mad at me? I didn't mean to drop my nuggets."
"Never at you, princess," I murmured, pressing my lips against the soft halo of her brown curls. "You are my entire world. Daddy is just going to handle some bad men."
Behind me, Vanessa was on her knees, desperately clawing at the hem of my trousers. The mascara was running down her cheeks in jagged black streaks, ruining the contour she had spent two hours perfecting for her socialite luncheon.
"Lorenzo, please! You don't understand the full picture!" she cried out, her voice shrill, echoing across the vaulted ceilings of the foyer. "Matteo said it was for the good of the family! He told me Sophie was a liability—a weakness our enemies could use against you! He said there was a secure boarding school in Switzerland, somewhere she’d be safe until she was eighteen! I did it for *us*!"
I didn't even turn to look down at her. To acknowledge her with a glance would have granted her the status of a human being, and in my eyes, she had just reduced herself to vermin.
"You told my daughter she was a dog," I said, my voice dangerously low, stripped of all warmth. "You made her eat scraps from a paper plate beneath the table where you served French champagne to strangers. If you say one more word before I tell you to speak, Vanessa, I will forget that you once carried my ring."
The double mahogany front doors swung open before the doorbell could chime.
Stepping across the threshold was Matteo Moretti.
My first cousin. My underboss. The man I had pulled out of the gutter in Hell's Kitchen fifteen years ago, dusted off, and handed a thirty percent cut of our shipping ports. He wore a tailored camel-hair coat, Italian leather gloves, and on his right ring finger gleamed the heavy gold signet ring cast in the shape of a snarling lion’s head.
Flanking him were four of my own perimeter guards—men who took my payroll, men who were sworn to protect this house. But their eyes wouldn't meet mine. They kept their gazes fixed on the Persian rugs beneath their boots.
Matteo took in the scene: Margaret Collins clutching her purse by the door, the overturned champagne flutes in the dining room, Vanessa sobbing on the floor, and me, standing at the foot of the sweeping staircase with Sophie cradled against my chest.
A smug, practiced smile touched the corners of Matteo’s mouth. He didn't look afraid. He looked like an heir who thought the king had already bled out.
"Lorenzo," Matteo said, spreading his gloved hands in an exaggerated gesture of innocence. "You're home early from the docks. I thought your meeting with the Russian syndicate in Brooklyn was supposed to run until midnight."
"You arranged that meeting, Matteo," I said smoothly, taking one slow, deliberate step down the stairs. "You told me Viktor wanted an in-person sit-down at the warehouse. But when I got there, Viktor wasn't there. Only an empty room and a burner phone."
Matteo didn't flinch. He casually tucked his hands into his coat pockets. "A miscommunication, cousin. You know how the Russians are. Paralyzed by their own shadows. But since you're here, it saves us a mountain of paperwork." He nodded toward Sophie. "Hand her over to the transport detail. The jet at Teterboro is fueled and waiting."
Sophie shivered violently against my ribs, burying her face into the crook of my neck. "Daddy, no! The lion man smells like smoke! Don't let him take my toys!"
"Nobody is taking you anywhere, sweetheart," I whispered into her hair, before snapping my gaze back to the man I had called a brother. "What paperwork, Matteo?"
Matteo sighed, as if explaining basic arithmetic to a stubborn child. He pulled a thick manila envelope from inside his coat and held it out.
"The relinquishment forms," Matteo said clearly. "Signed by you. Witnessed by your fiancée. Sophie has been placed under private guardianship through an agency out of Panama. Total legal separation. No trace. No leverage for our enemies. It’s what’s best for the Moretti syndicate."
"I never signed those papers," I said, my voice dropping an octave, ringing through the marble hall like a death knell.
"The notary says you did," Matteo replied, his smile turning razor-sharp. "The state of New York says you did. And more importantly, Lorenzo... the Commission says you did."
He stepped closer, his boots clicking rhythmically against the stone.
"You've gone soft, Lorenzo. Ever since Elena died giving birth to that girl, you've spent more time picking out nursery paint than securing our territory. You refused the Chicago merger. You turned down the Atlantic City expansion because you wanted to be home for her bedtime. The other four families see it. They smell blood in the water. They told me that if I didn't clean up your domestic mess, they would wipe the Moretti name off the map entirely."
Matteo stopped five feet from me. He reached out a gloved hand toward Sophie.
"Give me the girl, Lorenzo. Let Vanessa give you a son who can actually inherit an empire. Walk away from this, and you stay Don in name. Refuse... and you won't live to see sunrise."
May you like
Behind him, the four guards raised their weapons, training their barrels directly on my chest.
***
