Chapter 10
Midnight settled over the Bellandi estate in a serene, crystalline wash of silver moonlight.
In the private nursery on the third floor, the soft glow of a small ceramic nightlight illuminated the room in warm, gentle tones. Four-year-old Vivia lay asleep in her ivory four-poster bed, wrapped in a plush down comforter, clutching a small stuffed rabbit against her chest.
On the wooden rocking chair beside the crib rested the old, tattered dress that had belonged to Julianna. Mrs. Gable had carefully stitched the torn seam along the waist, pressing the frayed lace smooth, laying it out like a sacred relic of a mother's eternal vigilance.
Nico stood beside the bed, looking down at his sleeping daughter. His handsome, bearded face was softened by a profound, protective tenderness. He reached out with his calloused hand, gently brushing a soft brown curl away from Vivia’s forehead.
"You did good, little bird," Nico whispered into the quiet room. "Your mother would be proud."
He leaned down, kissed her warm cheek, and quietly stepped out into the shadowed corridor, pulling the heavy oak door shut until the latch engaged with a soft click.
He walked down the long, carpeted hallway to his private study.
The room was dark, save for the blue glow of the military-grade laptop resting on the mahogany desk. Rafe Calder stood by the reinforced windows, holding an encrypted satellite transponder, looking out over the quiet pine forests.
"The freighter cleared the harbor twenty minutes ago, Boss," Rafe reported quietly. "Marcella is locked in the lower bulkhead. The captain has strict orders."
Nico walked over to the desk, picking up a crystal tumbler of Scotch. "And the northern terminals?"
"Completely secured under our crews," Rafe answered. "Corban’s lieutenants surrendered their keys at ten o'clock without firing a single shot. The territory is ours."
Rafe hesitated, his jaw tightening slightly under the faint blue light.
Nico noticed the pause immediately. He set his glass down on the blotter with a soft clink. "Speak, Rafe."
"Before we wiped the USB drive, I ran a deep forensic recovery on the corrupted sectors," Rafe explained, his voice dropping to a tense, troubled whisper. "There was a fourth folder hidden behind a secondary partition. A folder that Julianna didn't create."
Nico’s slate-gray eyes narrowed into lethal slits. "Who created it?"
"The digital signature belongs to the Morello syndicate in Chicago," Rafe said, turning the laptop screen toward his Don. "And the timestamp is from three days ago."
Nico stepped closer, his gaze scanning the glowing text on the monitor.
Inside the recovered folder was a high-resolution surveillance photograph taken outside the Bellandi estate gates just forty-eight hours ago. Standing beside an unmarked black sedan was an elderly woman in an elegant wool coat, her face partially obscured by a silk scarf.
Underneath the photograph was an encrypted audio memo, accompanied by a single, terrifying line of text:
To Don Nico Bellandi: Marcella was merely the collector. The poison Julianna drank did not originate in Newark. It came from the family vault in Palermo. And the woman who authorized the shipment is landing at JFK at dawn.
Nico pressed the play button on the audio file.
A raspy, aristocratic female voice crackled through the speakers—a voice that Nico had not heard in twenty-five years, a voice that belonged to his mother, who was supposed to have burned in a yacht explosion off the coast of Sicily when he was seven years old.
"Nico, my darling boy," the voice whispered through the static, sweet and chillingly familiar. "You cleared the board of foolish children. Now it’s time to see if you can hold the crown against the woman who made you."
The line went dead.
The study fell into an absolute, suffocating silence.
The wind whispered through the tall pines outside, carrying the faint, distant hum of the approaching dawn over the Atlantic horizon.
Nico did not flinch. He did not curse.
He slowly reached into his trouser pocket, withdrew the gold signet ring of the Bellandi patriarch, and slid it firmly onto his right finger.
The domestic war was over. The traitors had been buried in the garden.
But the true, ancient war for the Bellandi dynasty had only just crossed the ocean.
Nico looked toward the dark window, his deep, raspy voice cutting through the stillness like a drawn sword.
"Rafe," Nico whispered.
May you like
"Yes, Boss?"
"Wake the captains from Boston and New York," Nico commanded, his eyes turning to black ice beneath the moonlight. "And fuel the private helicopters. We are going to the airport."
