28. Niccolò
Niccolò
I stand by the sprawling bay windows, staring out at the torrential rain washing over the manicured grounds of the estate, but I do not see the storm.
My mind remains trapped in the war room, replaying the agonizing moment I tore myself away from the woman I love.
The ghost of her mouth still burns against my jaw.
The phantom scent of vanilla and warm skin clings to my clothes, a reminder of the surrender I forced myself to walk away from.
I left her sitting on that conference table, trembling in a scrap of crimson silk, because I am terrified that my touch will inevitably corrupt the child growing inside her.
"You are a monumental fucking idiot," Alessio announces from the center of the room.
He lounges across the leather sofa, his boots propped carelessly on the mahogany coffee table, swirling a generous measure of my most expensive scotch in a crystal tumbler.
"I have watched you do some genuinely unhinged things in your life, Niccolò.
I watched you overthrow Roberto. I watched you gut men in filthy warehouses.
But walking away from a beautiful, pregnant woman who is literally begging you to claim her?
That is a new level of masochistic insanity. "
I do not turn around. I keep my eyes fixed on the rain-slicked glass. "Keep your mouth shut, Alessio. You understand nothing about the threat I pose to her."
"I understand that you are punishing both of you for a hypothetical future," he shoots back, the ice clinking against the glass as he takes a long swallow.
"You are playing the tragic martyr, isolating yourself in this study while the mother of your heir sits upstairs, wondering why the man she loves treats her like a disease.
You aren't protecting her. You are breaking her heart. "
Enzo stands near the massive stone fireplace, reviewing a stack of digital security logs on his tablet. Our Consigliere rarely agrees with my brother’s reckless commentary, but tonight, the two men seem united in their frustration regarding my fractured state of mind.
"Your brother is crass, but his assessment is accurate," Enzo murmurs, his icy blue gaze flicking up from the glowing screen.
"Your prolonged withdrawal is a liability.
The men require a leader who operates with unshakeable certainty.
Right now, you project volatility. The Falco family is bleeding territory, cornered like wounded animals, and they will exploit any perceived weakness in our armor.
You need to solidify your reign, Niccolò, and that requires stabilizing your home.
Go upstairs. Reconcile with Livia, and put your fucking house in order before the chaos outside these walls breaches the perimeter. "
"My house is secure," I growl, finally turning away from the window to glare at the two men questioning my authority.
I grip the edge of my desk, the wood biting into my palms. "I banished my father.
I crippled the Falco supply lines. The perimeter is fortified with forty armed guards, and nobody sets foot on this property without my explicit authorization.
She is safe. What we should be concerned about is how she got out. "
The universe chooses that exact, boastful moment to prove me catastrophically wrong.
The floorboards beneath my boots violently heave upward, launching me off balance.
A split second later, a deafening, catastrophic roar obliterates the quiet study, shattering the reinforced glass of the bay windows into thousands of lethal, flying shards.
The sheer concussive force of the explosion throws me against the edge of the desk, knocking the breath from my lungs.
Alessio is hurled off the leather sofa, crashing into the coffee table as plaster rains down from the ceiling. Books tumble from the towering shelves, the air instantly filling with choking, acrid gray smoke and the unmistakable, sulfuric stench of high-grade explosives.
Emergency alarms shriek to life, a piercing, mechanical wail that cuts through the ringing in my ears.
I scramble to my feet, ignoring the sharp sting of shattered glass biting into my palms. I draw the Smith & Wesson from the waistband of my trousers in a single, fluid motion, my thumb disengaging the safety.
"Report!" I roar, kicking a fallen chair out of my path.
Enzo pushes himself off the floor, his immaculate suit covered in gray dust. He grabs the tactical radio clipped to his belt, listening intently to the frantic, overlapping shouts of the security detail flooding the encrypted channel. His face turns stark white.
"We have a massive breach," Enzo barks, wiping a smear of blood from a shallow cut on his forehead. "The western service entrance just blew. A catering supply truck bypassed the outer checkpoint and detonated right against the kitchens."
"How the fuck does a rogue truck bypass the fortified gates?" Alessio snarls, racking the slide of his own weapon as he kicks his way through the rubble. "We have men stationed at every access point!"
Enzo presses the earpiece tighter, listening to the chaotic reports. "It was a coordinated inside job. The attackers had the updated clearance codes for the delivery schedule and knew exactly where the surveillance blind spots were. The guards thought it was our scheduled meat delivery."
Who could it be?
The realization strikes my chest with the force of a speeding train.
Gia.
That spiteful, vindictive bitch. I spared her life in the corridor.
I showed her an ounce of mercy, banishing her from the territory instead of snapping her neck, and she ran straight to the Falco family to sell the blueprints of my estate.
She knew the shift rotations. She knew the delivery schedules.
She handed my enemies the exact key they needed to bypass the iron gates.
"They are flooding the ground floor," Enzo warns, pulling a spare magazine from his jacket. "We have at least two dozen armed mercenaries pushing past the rubble. Niccolò, the syndicate protocol dictates immediate evacuation. We need to move you to the subterranean bunker right now."
"Fuck the bunker," I snarl, my blood turning to liquid ice. "Livia is on the second floor."
"You are the Don!" Enzo shouts, stepping in front of the splintered doorway to block my exit. "If you fall, this entire empire collapses! We have guards upstairs to secure her. You need to prioritize the survival of the crown."
I do not hesitate. I grab my Consigliere by the lapels of his ruined suit and shove him forcefully out of my path.
"I am a father first," I roar. "If anyone gets in my way, I will put a bullet in them myself."
I push through the ruined frame of the study doors and step out into the grand rotunda.
The mansion has transformed into a literal war zone.
Thick, suffocating smoke obscures the vaulted ceilings.
The beautiful marble foyer is littered with debris, the crystal chandelier lying in a shattered, sparkling heap in the center of the floor.
Gunfire echoes from the direction of the dining room, a chaotic symphony of automatic rifles and shouted commands.
Three men wearing unmarked tactical gear emerge from the smoke near the library entrance. They raise their rifles, scanning the rotunda for targets.
They do not even have the chance to pull their triggers.
I raise my weapon, and fire three consecutive shots.
Two men drop instantly, their skulls violently snapping backward as the hollow-point bullets find their marks.
The third man stumbles, clutching his ruined shoulder, and Alessio finishes him off with a ruthless double-tap to the chest from my right flank.
"Move, brother!" Alessio yells over the blaring alarms, covering the rear archway with his gun raised. "I will hold the ground floor. Go get your queen!"
I sprint toward the sweeping mahogany staircase.
The polished wood is slick with the blood of my fallen soldiers.
I do not feel the agonizing burn in my stitched ribs, nor do I register the chaotic violence erupting in the rooms around me.
A singular, blinding focus propels my legs forward. I have to reach her.
A Falco mercenary steps onto the middle landing, aiming a shotgun down the steps.
I do not slow my ascent. I fire a shot into his kneecap, dropping him to the wood with a wet, agonizing scream.
I close the distance in two massive strides, driving the steel heel of my boot violently into his windpipe, crushing the cartilage to silence him permanently.
I step over his twitching body, reloading a fresh magazine into my weapon without breaking stride.
Enzo covers my left side, neutralizing another threat attempting to flank us from the second-floor railing. My Consigliere takes a grazing bullet to his bicep, the fabric of his suit tearing, but he ignores the injury, pushing forward to match my relentless, aggressive pace.
"They are pushing toward the master wing!" Enzo warns, gesturing to a squad of men disappearing around the corner ahead of us.
I round the corner into the residential corridor, the air here is thick with plaster dust, making it difficult to breathe. The beautiful floral wallpaper is peppered with bullet holes.
I spot the two massive guards I stationed outside Livia’s suite. They are lying motionless on the runner rug, their bodies riddled with gunfire, a testament to their failed attempt to hold the line against an overwhelming force.
A massive, bone-rattling boom shakes the corridor.
The attackers planted a breaching charge. The formidable oak doors to the master suite are violently blown off their reinforced hinges, sending jagged splinters of wood flying across the corridor.
"Livia!" I roar, a sound torn from the very bottom of my soul.
I sprint through the smoke, leaping over the splintered remains of the doors, and burst into the bedroom.
The suite is a chaotic mess of ruined furniture and shattered glass. The bay windows are completely blown out, the freezing storm pouring into the room, whipping the torn silk curtains into a frantic frenzy.
Through the haze of the smoke, my eyes scan the wreckage, searching desperately for the crimson silk.
I spot her.
Livia is backed into the far corner of the room, trapped near the ruins of the vanity.
She holds a heavy brass lamp clutched in her hands like a makeshift club, her knuckles are white, her eyes are wide with terror.
The crimson slip is covered in gray dust, her breathing is erratic as she presses her spine against the wall, trying to shield the tiny life growing inside her stomach.
Standing a mere ten feet away from her, a Falco hitman raises a silenced pistol. He ignores the jewels scattered on the floor. His orders are clear, and he aligns the sights of his weapon squarely on her pregnant stomach.