Chapter 2
The wind howled like a wounded animal across the terrace, instantly biting into Noah’s exposed flesh. The temperature in the Colorado mountains had plummeted well below zero, and the blizzard was only growing stronger. The snow was already up to the three-year-old’s knees, freezing his bare, fair-skinned feet in seconds. He scrambled frantically toward the heavy glass doors, his tiny fists pounding against the thick panes, but the sound was entirely swallowed by the roaring wind.
"Please! Please let me in!" Noah screamed, his rosy cheeks rapidly turning a dangerous, pale shade of blue. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry!"
Inside, he could see the warm, golden light of the entrance hall. He saw his father, Mark, laughing with a group of suited guests, swirling a glass of amber liquid. He saw his stepmother, Claudia, smiling as she arranged a massive silver bow on a gift box. Neither of them even glanced toward the dark glass. They had completely forgotten him.
Shivering violently, Noah dropped to his knees in the powder. He crawled through the accumulating snow, his bare hands digging blindly until his frozen fingers brushed against something hard. He pulled up the small, handmade wooden airplane. The red ribbon was wet and ruined, but the toy remained intact. He pulled it tight against his chest, curling his tiny body into a tight ball on the frost-covered stone of the terrace, trying to preserve whatever little body heat he had left.
Down the winding mountain road, the blinding glare of headlights cut through the heavy snowfall. A convoy of three armored, black SUVs powered up the steep incline, their chained tires crunching aggressively against the ice.
"Visibility is terrible out here, Boss," the driver said, gripping the steering wheel tightly. "But we're less than a minute from the lodge."
In the back seat, Richard Bellacorte sat in absolute, terrifying silence. At sixty-one, he possessed the deeply masculine, intimidating aura of a veteran Mafia boss who had survived decades of bloodshed. He wore a tailored, dark three-piece suit, a crisp dress shirt, and a heavy wool overcoat. His fair face was lined with experience, his eyes cold and calculating. A heavy gold signet ring rested on his finger.
"Just get me to the door," Richard commanded, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that left no room for debate. "I want to see my grandson."
"Yes, Mr. Bellacorte," the driver replied nervously, accelerating up the final stretch of the driveway.
As the lead vehicle pulled into the circular drop-off zone, the massive headlights swept across the front of the grand lodge. The sweeping beams illuminated the large stone pillars, the decorative wreaths, and the open side of the terrace. As the light hit the frozen stone, Richard’s sharp eyes caught a tiny, miserable lump huddled in the corner, rapidly disappearing beneath the falling snow.
"Stop the car," Richard barked.
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"Sir, we aren't at the canopy yet—"
"I said stop the damn car!" Richard roared, slamming his hand against the leather seat. Before the SUV had even come to a complete halt, the patriarch threw his door open and stepped out into the raging blizzard.
