Chapter 5
STEFANO
The desperation on Val’s face, the fear in her eyes, her silent pleading—it would haunt my dreams for the rest of my life.
She had survived being shot only a few days earlier, making a conscious decision to overcome the ordeal on her terms after being chained to a wall and tortured by a psychopath.
A beautiful, fierce, determined woman.
But when her family showed up, she became someone else. Her father and her brothers terrified her. They’d broken her.
I shook my head, refusing to believe it.
Her gaze jumped from mine to the staircase.
Fuck. Our son.
He stood at the top of the landing, taunting the Moscatelli bastard clinging to his mother.
“No,” I shouted at him, “run!”
The man fired at my son.
He fucking fired at my nine-year-old son…
And made himself a dead man walking.
I would kill the son of a bitch for that once the coward stopped hiding behind Val. I needed to get a clean shot without the risk of hitting her.
He backed up through the foyer, out the front door, dragging Val along as his shield, and Saul Moscatelli casually walked out after them.
I sighted my weapon on both men, calculating the best shot at either one without putting a bullet into my girl.
Couldn’t take that chance, not ever.
Marco Moscatelli and his thug opened fire, forcing me to dive into the kitchen for cover. He slammed the front door shut just as I took my shot, causing my bullet to lodge in the solid wood panel instead of Saul Moscatelli’s head.
I peered around the corner at the staircase to be sure Enzo hadn’t come back. Thank fucking Christ he’d had the instinct to duck and run down the hallway.
I’d watched it happen in real time, my brain transforming the scene into slow motion. My boy had just a small trail of blood dripping down the side of his face, which made it reasonably safe for me to assume he hadn’t been shot.
He was safe now, for the time being, and I had to keep it that way while also fighting for his mother.
“Bella,” I shouted up the stairs.
She shouted back from behind cover. Good. Smart girl. She understood the life.
“I’ve got him, sir. He’s okay. And my aunt is here helping.”
“Lock the service stairwell door and don’t come down until you hear from me or Tony.”
Then I motioned for my men to head out the back and come around to flank Moscatelli and his men.
Tony had been hit, but that didn’t stop him. He dragged himself off the floor and followed the others outside. My second understood an attack on this house, on my family, was an attack on the entire Vignali organization.
The war I had tried to avoid now loomed on the horizon.
Seconds later, the young Moscatelli thug drew another weapon and fired with both hands like a goddamn cowboy in some stupid fucking Western. Ridiculous. And smart.
Doing so gave Marco enough cover to get the front door open again, so they could make a strategic escape.
Marco slipped through the opening, using the door as cover while firing as he and his brother made their way out.
The gunfire stopped at that point, so I sprinted to the door, but both idiots started firing behind them as they ran, making their shots wild and unpredictable.
I didn’t give a fuck if one hit me.
Nothing mattered but getting to Val.
I had to get to her before it was too late.
Ducking and weaving, I charged after those retreating bastards. They piled into a rented limo, tires screaming as it tore off, but I gave chase anyway.
Later my men would hunt down the owner of that rental company and kill him for doing business with a Chicago family. A fatal mistake to make in my city.
Enraged over the loss of Val, the attempt on my son’s life, the invasion into our home, I squared up and aimed for the limo tires.
The driver accelerated and moved out of range.
I fired anyway and emptied the mag, then kept pulling the trigger, gritting my teeth against the useless clicks of an empty motherfucking pistol.
I roared. “Fuck! God-fucking-damn it!”
Panting, I bent over with my hands on my thighs, trying to catch my breath and gather my thoughts. Then I spun and marched back into the house.
Tony followed, collapsing against the wall the moment we got inside.
“Moscatelli’s men?” I demanded.
My second squeezed his eyes shut.
“Both dead in the front yard, boss.”
“How the fuck did they get into my house?” I shouted. “How did a fat old man get in undetected and reach my family? No way that whale scaled my walls. Someone had to see them. What about the surveillance?”
“Guards posted in the rear are dead,” Tony said. “So is our man on monitor watch in the gatehouse. Necks snapped. Moscatelli used the service entrance and stairwell for access.”
Dropping my gaze, I cursed at the loss of those Vignali soldiers. Good men who would be missed. I swallowed the fury burning my throat and shook my goddamn head.
Things needed doing, and only a clear mind would bring my girl back to us. Once I set a plan in motion, then I could afford to release the rage and channel it into something useful. Like a plan to kill every one of those motherfuckers.
I lifted my gaze to make eye contact with my second.
“Tony, how badly are you hurt?”
“It’s fine, boss. I’ll clean up in the shower and wrap myself with some bandages.”
As usual, he shrugged off his injuries, ready to keep going without taking care of himself. He never seemed to get how that only led to longer, more painful recoveries.
“No, Tony, call the doctor right away. Let him patch you up right—no half-ass bandaging. I’m not going to risk you getting sick. I need you back to one hundred percent sooner than later. And have him care for the wound on my son’s head as well. Go on, get it handled.”
Tony nodded. “If that’s your order, Stef.”
I gripped his shoulder with affection and nodded.
“There’s another rat in this organization. Moscatelli had inside info—he didn’t guess his way in. Look into that while you’re rehabbing. Rest here and keep an eye on the boy.”
Any Vignali man who could be bought by another family was a cancer. Something to be cut out fast.
I wouldn’t allow it to spread.
Nor would Tony.
He needed to keep busy while he waited for the doctor, or he would take on another task and end up unconscious, bleeding out before anyone could help.
I wouldn’t allow that either. I needed him.
More importantly, my son needed him now too.
“Bella,” I shouted. “Find my fucking phone.”
Thirty seconds later, the girl hurried down the stairs with my phone clutched in her hand.
“You and your aunt will stay here and take care of my son while his mother is gone. Don’t leave him alone. Understand?”
She nodded again, then ran back upstairs to Enzo.
With her out of earshot, I made a call to one of my capos.
“Rocco, get your cleanup crew to my house. Now. I want the Vignali men handled with respect… funeral ready.”
Those three men died in service to me. They would receive a proper soldier’s burial, so their families could mourn.
“As for the others, you know what to do,” I added. “Handle the house, whatever it takes. Don’t come back to me about the money, just get it done. I want it to look like nothing happened. I won’t have Val come home to this fucking mess.”
Rocco cleared his throat. “Just heard. On it already, boss.”
“Good. Hurry the fuck up then.”
Manhattan uniforms would stop by after a shooting like this one. Corpses on the front lawn complicated matters, even if police were on my payroll.
THIRTY MINUTES LATER
Rocco and his crew arrived in a convoy of black cargo vans. He and several of his men jumped out and came directly to me.
I pointed at two who weren’t yet dressed for the occasion.
“You men go inside and help Bruce. Follow his orders. I want everything you can dig up on the Moscatelli and Klimov families. Addresses. Phone numbers. Blueprints of their fucking houses. Names, addresses, earnings of their associates.
“I want to know where the two families make their money, which of their businesses are most lucrative, their strengths, their weaknesses. All legitimate and illegal cash flows. Get me every-fucking-thing.”
Both men nodded. “Yes, sir.”
An odd sensation, like a physical weight settling on my shoulders, gave me pause, then the urge to look up struck me.
Enzo stood at the top of the stairs again, this time staring down at me. The boy clenched and flexed his fists while glaring.
“How could you do that?” he shouted.
I recognized the judgment on his face. The same judgment my mother had passed when I refused to follow the path my family laid out for me as my brother’s second. I had failed her. Now my son looked at me the same way. I had also failed him.
“How could I do what?” I shot back, my tone harsher than it should’ve been, considering the circumstances.
Pinching the bridge of my nose, I pulled in a long breath. My son was terrified. No need to pile more on him. I used the release from a slow exhale to soften my tone.
“How could I do what, Enzo?” I repeated.
Tears streamed down his face.
“You let them take Mama!”
He hesitated then, visibly working to rein himself in.
“From your own house,” he added.
The way he forced back the anger vibrating in his blood filled me with pride. Because anger, when controlled and wielded with precision, got shit done.
The boy had inherited my volatility, and in his short time under my roof, he was already learning how to control it.
Soon, he would have to learn how to wield it.
I raked a hand through my hair and looked at the damage.
Bullet holes and blood peppered the walls. Plaster dust and tiny shards of Murano glass from my mother’s vintage vase collection littered the floor.
And crimson rose petals.
The roses I’d bought for Val.
I never had the chance to give them to her.
A certain poetry lingered in the mix of blood, violence, and scattered roses—meant to symbolize my love for Valerie—all of it now laid to ruin, ready to be swept away as if it never existed.
Like my trust in her.
When I got her back, and I would get her back, there’d be a lot of necessary atonement, and it would be just as unpleasant for me as it would be for her.
I owed her as much if not more than she owed me.
“I didn’t let any of this shit happen, boy.”
Enzo came down and made a beeline for me.
I reached for the bruise around the gash on his temple.
“Are you hurt anywhere else, Enzo?”
My son jerked away from my touch, letting his emotions cut loose. He cocked back a fist and punched me in the gut—a solid hit, fueled by rage, fear, and sheer determination.
An image flashed through my mind. I had done the same to my father. He had laughed at me, turned his back on me.
I caught my son’s next punch, pulled him into my arms, and held him while he screamed and struck me wherever he could reach. And I let him.
“She’s gone again, and it’s all your fault!” he screamed. “You said we would all be together. You promised to make her better and keep us safe in this house. You promised!”
I held him tighter and let him use his rage to work through the pain. He needed to process what had happened.
More than that, I deserved his anger.
I hadn’t let them take her, but they took her all the same, and I couldn’t stop them. To him, in this moment, there was no difference between me letting her go and me failing to stop them.
Enzo fought my hold until sobs overtook him.
I welcomed it all, keeping him safe inside my arms.
Never would I laugh at my son or turn my back on him.
After showing him to breathe slow and steady, he finally relaxed. Then he pushed himself away.
“Why did they take her?” he asked.
Thoughts of killing Moscatelli flooded my mind, forcing a wry grin onto my face. I could feel it taking control of my facial muscles, and I couldn’t make it stop.
“Because they made a mistake, son.”
“What mistake?”
“They thought they could come into our house, take what’s ours, and walk away.”
My son nodded, his eyes getting darker, his expression mirroring mine. He took my meaning. And he meant business in his own right.
Another swell of pride grew inside my chest, but Christ, how the fuck old was this kid’s soul?
“What are we going to do, Mr. Vignali?”
I frowned.
I wanted to shake him. I wanted to make him call me Dad or Papa or even mio padre .
Anything but Mr. Vignali.
I squeezed my eyes shut for a moment.
Then, right there, in the middle of all the destruction, I dropped to my knees and made my first solemn vow to my son.
Not a fucking promise, but an unbreakable vow.
“I don’t care how many men I have to kill or how many cities I have to burn to the ground, Enzo Salvatore Vignali...”
And to be sure he met my eyes and knew I meant every word, I brushed his curls away from his face.
“I will do it. And I will bring her back to you.”