Chapter 8
Valentina closed the heavy library doors behind her, throwing the brass deadbolt with a soft, reassuring click.
The lethal sovereign who had just dismantled a capo's life vanished in an instant. She walked across the Persian rug, knelt beside the leather sofa, and gathered Lily into her arms, burying her face into the curve of her daughter's neck. The child smelled of sweet fruit, baby shampoo, and clean summer air.
"Did you finish your drink, little bird?" Valentina asked softly, her voice rich with deep, protective warmth.
"Almost," Lily smiled, patting Valentina’s shoulder with a sticky, strawberry-scented hand. "Mommy, did Uncle Gerald go away? His belt was very loud."
"Uncle Gerald went on a very long trip, sweetheart," Valentina murmured, brushing a soft curl behind Lily’s ear. "He won't ever come back to this house. You never have to worry about loud belts again."
"Good," Lily nodded solemnly, taking another bite of her fruit. "I didn't like his face anyway."
A faint, breathtaking smile touched Valentina’s lips—a rare, genuine expression that softened the hard, chiseled lines of her face. She sat beside her daughter on the sofa, letting the girl lean her small head against her dark suit vest, watching the afternoon sunlight filter through the leaded glass windows.
A discreet tap sounded on the mahogany door.
"Enter," Valentina said, her tone instantly regaining its crisp, executive sharpness.
Dante stepped into the room, holding an encrypted satellite tablet in his gloved hand. His weathered face was unusually tight, his brow furrowed with deep tension.
"Boss," Dante whispered, keeping his voice low so as not to startle the child. "We finished decrypting the phone we took from Evelyn's purse."
Valentina gently stroked Lily’s hair, keeping her eyes fixed on her captain. "And?"
"Gerald wasn't lying about Chicago, Donna Valentina," Dante reported, stepping closer to the desk. "Marcus Falco didn't just stage eighty men in Newark. He sent his top enforcer, Paulie 'The Blade' Vitucci, to oversee the operation. They have four armored Suburbans currently idling at an industrial park just off the turnpike, less than twenty minutes from our southern perimeter."
Valentina did not flinch. "What was their signal?"
"A text message from Gerald's phone containing a single digit: One," Dante explained. "It was supposed to be sent at two o'clock to confirm that the child was hospitalized and that you were detained by the local precinct. If the message isn't sent by two-thirty, Falco’s standing orders are to breach our perimeter gates and execute a scorched-earth extraction."
Valentina checked the antique grandfather clock in the corner of the library.
It was two-fifteen.
"They have fifteen minutes," Valentina said softly, the pauses between her words measured and absolute.
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"Do we mobilize the perimeter garrison, Boss?" Dante asked, his hand drifting toward his sidearm. "We can set an ambush at the bridge before they reach the estate road."
"No," Valentina replied, rising smoothly from the sofa. She smoothed down her tailored waistcoat, her grey eyes darkening into twin shards of volcanic obsidian. "A bridge ambush leaves witnesses for the state police. Let them drive all the way to the gates."
