Chapter 2
The heavy oak front doors of the mansion had opened and closed without a sound, the heavy security hinges oiled to perfection. No one on the second floor had heard the arrival.
Vittorio Mancini ascended the grand, sweeping staircase with the silent, predatory grace of a man who had spent his life surviving in a world of absolute violence. At forty-four, he was a force of nature. He was deeply masculine, possessing a rugged, fair-skinned face that was currently flushed with the exertion of travel. He wore a tailored dark charcoal suit, an open-collar white dress shirt that revealed the thick, corded muscles of his neck, and polished leather shoes that absorbed the sound of his footsteps. A heavy leather travel bag was gripped in his right hand, and a gold signet ring—the twin to Rocco’s, yet carrying significantly more weight—shined on his finger.
He was supposed to be in Chicago until Friday. A sudden shift in syndicate logistics had brought him home three days early. He had expected to find his estate quiet, bathed in the bright afternoon sun, with his daughter safely playing in her room.
Instead, as he crested the top of the staircase, his slate-gray eyes took in a scene that made the blood in his veins turn to liquid nitrogen.
Elodie was on the floor. Her small shoulders shook with quiet, terrified sobs. Her beloved stuffed rabbit lay discarded near the polished banister. Surrounding her was a chaotic barricade of cardboard boxes. Greta, the maid, stood pressed against the floral wallpaper, clutching Elodie’s sheets as if they were a shield, her eyes wide with terror as she spotted Vittorio arriving.
Vittorio stopped at the top of the landing. The bright, vivid colors of the hallway—the rich blues of the artwork, the bright white of the trim, the emerald green of the plants—seemed to sharpen into agonizing focus.
Elodie heard the faint shift of his leather shoe. She turned her head, wiping a tear from her rosy cheek, and her breath hitched.
“Daddy,” she gasped.
She didn't run to him. She was too shocked by the sudden violence she had just endured, her little body trembling as she remained on the carpet. She looked at the towering figure of her father, her eyes wet and pleading, seeking the ultimate protection that only he could provide.
Vittorio did not move. His gaze flicked from his daughter on the floor, to the maid holding her bedding, to the open doorway of the master suite where his mother and brother stood. The equation of what had just occurred assembled itself in his mind with terrifying, absolute clarity.
Elodie pointed a small, shaking finger toward the stack of boxes, her American accent pitching up into a breathless, broken cry.
May you like
“Grandma said I sleep in storage now,” she sobbed.
The words echoed in the high-ceilinged hallway, hanging in the bright, sunlit air like a death sentence. The pure innocence of her voice contrasted violently with the dark, ruthless reality of the Mafia household. Vittorio’s chest expanded as he took a single, slow breath. He did not yell. He did not curse. The expression on his face did not twist into an ugly mask of rage. Instead, his features settled into a chilling, expressionless void that his enemies knew all too well. It was the face of a man who was about to dismantle a life.
