Chapter 10
Julian Morello slowly stepped out from behind the SUV, his weapon discarded on the gravel, his hands raised in the air. His fair face was pale, his breath coming in ragged, terrified gasps.
"Nico..." Julian rasped, his voice trembling. "Gavin told me the girl was dead! He said the succession was fractured! This was business, Nico! Just business!"
Nico closed the distance in two unhurried strides. He did not raise his weapon. His left hand shot forward like an iron clamp, locking around Julian Morello’s throat with crushing torque, slamming the rival boss hard against the crumpled hood of the vehicle.
Nico leaned in close, his handsome, bearded face inches from Julian’s bulging eyes.
"You signed a contract to murder an unborn child in my house," Nico whispered, every word carved from arctic stone. "You thought because I reached fifty-six, I had forgotten how to butcher wolves."
"Nico... please," Julian choked out, clawing at Nico’s iron grip. "The Commission... the Commission will sanction you for this—"
"I am the Commission, Julian," Nico said softly.
He raised the 1911 pistol, pressing the cold steel barrel against the center of Julian’s forehead.
A sharp, piercing cry echoed through the open windows of the third-floor medical wing above.
It was not a cry of agony. It was the raw, vibrant, triumphant wail of a newborn baby drawing his first breath of life.
Nico froze.
His eyes shifted upward toward the brightly lit window of the private clinic. The tension in his shoulders melted away, replaced by an overwhelming, breathtaking wave of victory.
His grandson was alive.
Nico looked back down at Julian Morello. The coldness returned to his grey eyes, final and absolute.
"Cassian," Nico commanded, lowering his weapon.
"Yes, Don Ferrante?"
"Put Julian in the trunk of his own car," Nico said, releasing his grip and letting Morello slump to the gravel. "Drive him down to the deep-water channel at the south docks. Give him the Cole family as company. Let the river settle the contract."
Nico turned on his heel and walked up the grand stairs, leaving the wreckage behind him without a single backward glance.
Ten minutes later, Nico pushed through the doors of the private surgical recovery room.
The room was warm, peaceful, and clean. Sienna lay propped up on soft pillows, her face flushed with healthy, rosy color, her exhaustion illuminated by the pure light of maternal bliss. Cradled against her chest in a pale blue cashmere blanket was her newborn son—a healthy, beautiful boy with a shock of thick dark hair and strong, gripping fingers.
Beside the bed sat three-year-old Mila, holding her grandfather's suit jacket around her shoulders, gently touching her baby brother’s cheek with wide, awe-filled eyes.
"Look, Grandpa," Mila whispered happily. "He has your chin."
Nico felt the ancient ice around his heart melt entirely away. He walked over to the bed, sat on the edge of the mattress, and took Sienna’s hand in his own, pressing a lingering kiss against her knuckles.
"He is magnificent, Sienna," Nico murmured, his voice rich with quiet pride. "What is his name?"
"Leo," Sienna smiled through tears of joy. "Leo Ferrante. He carries your father's name, Dad. He will never know the name Cole."
Nico reached into his breast pocket, drew out Mila’s severed braid, and laid it gently on the nightstand beside a small silver box.
"No one will ever hurt this family again, Sienna," Nico said softly, stroking Mila’s hair. "I swear it on my father's grave."
The recovery room door clicked open, and Cassian stepped inside, holding an encrypted satellite transponder recovered from Julian Morello’s vehicle. His face was unusually grim.
Nico stood up, walking silently into the quiet hallway so as not to disturb the children.
"What is it, Cassian?" Nico asked.
Cassian handed him the transponder, its screen displaying an active, encrypted communication line originating from Sicily.
"We decrypted Morello’s private routing log, Don Ferrante," Cassian whispered, his voice tense. "Julian Morello didn't plan this alone. The four million dollars in the Caymans wasn't Morello money."
Nico’s grey eyes narrowed into lethal slits. "Whose money was it?"
"It came from Palermo," Cassian replied quietly. "From your older sister, Elena. She never forgave you for taking the leadership chair ten years ago. The dispatch says she has already boarded a private flight from Rome to New York."
Nico stared at the glowing transponder for a long, silent moment.
The battle for his estate was over, but the war for his bloodline had only just crossed the Atlantic.
May you like
Nico handed the transponder back to Cassian, his jaw locking into granite, his handsome face carved with the terrible, unyielding promise of an approaching storm.
"Fuel the private jet, Cassian," Nico commanded, his low baritone slicing through the quiet corridor. "And assemble the captains. We are going to meet my sister at the tarmac."
