Chapter 3 - THE WOLF AT THE GATES
For three weeks, life inside the Rossi fortress settled into a strange, tender routine.
I lived as a ghost to the outside world, cared for by Rosa, the head cook, who smuggled rich broths and herbal teas to my room every afternoon. Leo grew stronger by the day, his skin losing its sickly pallor, replaced by chubby cheeks and bright, curious brown eyes that looked startlingly like his father’s.
Lorenzo spent every spare hour in the nursery.
At first, he sat quietly in the corner, reading intelligence reports or reviewing shipment manifests while watching us. Then, he started holding Leo for ten minutes at a time. By the end of the second week, the fearsome mafia boss could burp a baby, change a diaper, and pace the floor humming a low, melancholy Sicilian lullaby with practiced ease.
We rarely talked about our pasts, but an unspoken bond tied us together. We were two broken people glued back together by a tiny miracle.
Until a Tuesday afternoon in late October.
The peace shattered with the sound of heavy boots echoing up the grand staircase.
Before Rosa could intercept them, the double doors of the nursery flew open. Standing in the entrance was Dante Moretti—the ruthless head of the rival Chicago syndicate, flanked by four armed enforcers.
Dante smiled, a sickening, predatory grin that didn't reach his cold eyes.
“Well, well,” Dante drawled, stepping into the room as if he owned it. “The great Lorenzo Rossi, hiding away in the nursery like a domestic housewife. Word on the street is you found a miracle worker to keep your heir alive. I had to come see for myself.”
I froze, clutching Leo tighter to my chest.
Dante’s eyes landed on me, scanning my gray uniform and the baby in my arms with visible disgust.
“Ah, and what a charming little pet you’ve acquired,” Dante sneered, taking another step forward. “A wet nurse from the slums. Tell me, sweetheart, how much is Lorenzo paying you to keep his bastard alive? Double that, and you can work for me.”
Before Dante could finish his sentence, the air in the room turned to absolute ice.
A shadow fell over the doorway as Lorenzo stepped out from the adjoining bathroom. He wasn't holding a gun. He didn't need one. His presence alone was enough to make Dante’s armed guards instinctively reach for their holsters.
“Step back, Dante,” Lorenzo said. His voice was a lethal whisper.
Dante smirked, turning to face him. “Relax, Lorenzo. I just came to talk business. The North Side docks—sign them over to me, and I’ll pretend I didn't see you playing nanny to a maid’s bastard. Otherwise… well, accidents happen to fragile little infants all the time.”
The threat hung in the air like a guillotine blade.
Dante’s hand drifted toward his coat pocket.
It was a fatal mistake.
In a fraction of a second, before Dante’s fingers could even wrap around his weapon, Lorenzo moved with terrifying, predatory speed. He cleared the distance across the room, slammed Dante against the heavy oak door with a deafening crash, and jammed the barrel of his own Glock directly under Dante’s chin.
Dante’s guards whipped out their guns, but Marco and three Rossi enforcers materialized from the hallway, their weapons instantly locked on the intruders' heads.
“You stepped foot in my house,” Lorenzo whispered, his face inches from Dante’s, his eyes burning with absolute hellfire. “You threatened my son. And you spoke to the woman who saved his life.”
Dante choked, his arrogance evaporating instantly as he stared into the eyes of a man with nothing left to lose. “Lorenzo… wait—let’s talk—”
“There is nothing to talk about,” Lorenzo said coldly.
He didn't pull the trigger—not because he showed mercy, but because death was too easy for a man like Dante.
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“Marco,” Lorenzo barked without breaking eye contact. “Throw him and his dogs out of my estate. If any of them cross the city limits by midnight, feed them to the fish in Lake Michigan.”
“Boss,” Marco smiled grimly, gesturing with his gun. “Gladly.”
