Chapter 18
The return flight to the estate was peaceful. The war had been swift, brutal, and utterly decisive. The Greco syndicate in Chicago was effectively dismantled, their leadership terrified into submission, and Victoria Hale was permanently erased from society.
Raffaele sat in the private jet, looking out the window as the sun began to rise, casting a brilliant, clear light over the landscape. The dark, sociopathic predator that had burned a compound to the ground slowly receded, replaced once again by the devoted father.
When the jet landed and the armored convoy pulled through the heavily fortified gates of the Marconi estate, the property was bathed in cinematic, non-yellowing morning sunlight. The massive lawns were pristine, showing no signs of the chaos that had erupted just forty-eight hours prior.
Raffaele stepped out of the SUV, shedding his heavy overcoat. He walked quickly up the stone steps and through the grand glass doors of the mansion.
Margaret was waiting in the foyer. The fifty-six-year-old housekeeper looked exhausted but profoundly relieved as she saw the Boss walk through the doors unharmed.
"Mr. Marconi," Margaret said softly, offering a respectful nod. "Welcome home, sir."
"Is he awake?" Raffaele asked immediately, his voice thick with anticipation.
"He is in the kitchen, sir. Eating pancakes," Margaret smiled warmly. "He asked for you when he woke up."
Raffaele didn't wait. He strode down the long mahogany hallway, the sharp, elegant tattoos on his neck visible above his crisp dress shirt. He pushed open the swinging doors to the massive, brightly lit kitchen.
Noah was sitting at the large marble island, his small legs dangling from a high stool, happily eating a plate of syrupy pancakes. He wore a set of soft pajamas, looking completely innocent and entirely safe.
"Noah," Raffaele said, his voice dropping into the impossibly soft, gentle register reserved only for his son.
May you like
Noah looked up, his bright blue eyes widening with pure joy. "Daddy!"
Raffaele crossed the kitchen, effortlessly scooping the three-year-old boy into his arms. He buried his face in Noah's soft, dark hair, inhaling the sweet scent of his child, the crushing weight of the past two days finally lifting from his shoulders.
