Chapter 7 - The Blood Assembly
The grand ballroom of the Rossi estate was packed with the most dangerous men in the country.
Seven Capos, representing the governing families of the syndicate, sat around the massive mahogany council table beneath the crystal chandeliers. Armed bodyguards lined the perimeter walls, their expressions tense, the air thick with cigar smoke and whispered speculation.
At the head of the table stood Donna Caterina.
She had changed into a mourning gown of black lace, a delicate veil covering her eyes, a silver rosary clutched in her manicured hands.
"Brothers," she spoke, her voice trembling with manufactured grief, wiping away a phantom tear. "I called you here tonight under the darkest omen our family has ever known. My son... your Don... has fallen to madness."
A collective murmur rippled through the capos.
"He returned from Berlin unhinged," Caterina continued, raising her chin with tragic dignity. "He blamed this family for his wife's abandonment. When my loyal guards attempted to disarm him for his own safety, he slaughtered them. He locked himself in the lower vaults and... in his grief... set fire to the old foundation."
Old Capo Bellini, the senior-most member of the council, leaned forward, his brow furrowed. "Are you saying Don Dante is dead, Donna Caterina?"
"I am saying," Caterina whispered, placing her hands flat on the table, "that the seat of the Don is vacant. And until an heir comes of age, as the Matriarch, I am invoking the blood protocol to take command of the Rossi throne."
"You invoke nothing, Caterina."
The heavy oak doors of the ballroom did not just open—they were blown off their hinges by a controlled explosive charge that sent splinters of gold and mahogany raining across the velvet carpet.
Smoke billowed into the room.
Through the haze stepped two dozen of my elite personal guards, assault rifles raised in high-ready positions, instantly cutting off every exit and pinning Caterina's bodyguards against the walls.
Then, I walked into the light.
The silence that fell over the ballroom was absolute.
I was drenched in rain, my tactical shirt stained with the blood of her assassins, my jaw set with lethal authority. But I did not walk alone.
Beside me, walking with her head held high, draped in my heavy wool overcoat, was Grace.
She looked pale, her body exhausted from labor, but her eyes burned with the fierce, untouchable majesty of a mother who had clawed her way out of hell. And nestled securely against her breast, swaddled in clean white linen, was our son.
Caterina stumbled backward, her veil slipping from her hair, her face draining of color until she looked like a walking corpse.
"Dante...?" she breathed, clutching the edge of the table to keep from collapsing. "No... that's impossible..."
"You look disappointed, Mother," I said, my voice echoing off the vaulted ceilings like thunder. "Did you expect me to burn in the crypt you locked me in?"
Capo Bellini stood up, his eyes darting between me, the baby, and Caterina. "Dante... what is the meaning of this? Your mother told us—"
"My mother is a liar, a kinslayer, and a traitor to the Cosa Nostra," I declared, stepping to the center of the table.
With a single gesture, Marco stepped forward and slammed a tablet onto the table, connecting it to the ballroom's primary projection screen.
The screen lit up with high-definition audio and video feeds retrieved from Vance’s private terminal in the sub-cellar.
Caterina’s voice filled the room, cold and calculating: “Extract the child. Make sure the mother does not survive the delivery. The council must believe it was an accidental hemorrhage.”
The faces of the seven Capos hardened into masks of stone.
In our world, brutality was business. Murder was politics. But the code was absolute: A Don’s bloodline is sacred. The murder of an unborn heir is high treason, punishable by eradication.
"She forged my death," I said, looking around the table at the most powerful men in Italy. "She imprisoned my pregnant wife in a dungeon. She attempted to murder my son. And she attempted to gas the sitting Don of this family to steal the throne."
Capo Bellini slowly turned his gaze upon Caterina. His hand reached inside his coat, resting upon the handle of his weapon.
"Donna Caterina," the old capo said, his voice dripping with disgust. "You have broken the oldest law of the blood. Your life is forfeit."
"No!" Caterina shrieked, backing against the fireplace, pointing a trembling finger at Grace. "She is a peasant! She was poisoning our bloodline! I did it for the family! I did it to protect our empire!"
"You did it for yourself," Grace spoke.
Her voice was soft, but it carried across the entire hall, commanding the room with a dignity Caterina could never buy. Grace stepped forward, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with me, looking down at the woman who had tried to bury her alive.
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"You tried to erase me," Grace said, her gaze steady, unflinching. "You tried to make my husband believe I abandoned him. But love does not break that easily, Caterina. And you will never touch my child again."
I drew my Glock, chambering a round, and leveled the barrel directly between my mother’s eyes.
