Chapter 18
Three months passed. The Romano estate settled into a cold, efficient rhythm under Alessandra's absolute control. The cinematic, natural light of the mansion no longer illuminated the toxic infighting of a fractured family; it shone on a well-oiled syndicate machine.
Caleb's ribs had fully healed. He ran happily through the sprawling gardens, his rosy cheeks flushed with health, flanked constantly by two of Alessandra's most lethal, trusted bodyguards. He was the undisputed prince of the Romano empire, completely shielded from the violence that paid for his idyllic childhood.
Mason's transformation was grueling. Alessandra subjected the ten-year-old to a relentless schedule of physical training, academic tutoring, and menial labor. He scrubbed floors, ran miles in the freezing rain, and learned hand-to-hand combat from hardened capos. The arrogant smirk was gone, replaced by a quiet, stoic discipline. He spoke only when spoken to, and his loyalty to Alessandra was becoming absolute, forged in the fires of survival.
Alessandra sat in the grand dining room, reviewing shipping manifests on a sleek, encrypted tablet. The mahogany table, once a stage for her mother's cruelty, was now just a workspace. She wore a tailored black suit, the gold signet ring heavy on her finger.
Silas entered the room, his face grim. "Boss. We have a situation."
Alessandra didn't look up from her tablet. "Report."
"It's the Montana compound," Silas said, his American accent clipped. "The perimeter guards just called in. Someone breached the isolation zone. They cut the hardlines and disabled the localized jammers."
Alessandra’s finger stopped swiping. She slowly looked up, her dark eyes narrowing into lethal slits. "Vincent and Francesca?"
May you like
"Alive and secure in the main house, along with Bianca," Silas confirmed. "But the breach wasn't an extraction. It was a delivery."
Silas placed a sealed, plastic evidence bag on the mahogany table. Inside was a heavy, silver pocket watch, its surface deeply scratched and stained with dried blood. Alessandra recognized it instantly. It belonged to Morreti, the head of the Chicago Commission.
