Chapter 6 - The Broken Treaty
The explosion happened at 4:12 on a Thursday afternoon.
I was in the kitchen preparing a plate of sliced apples for the children when the floorboards beneath my feet groaned. A split second later, a deep, concussive boom rattled the heavy glass windows of the conservatory. The lights flickered once, then died, replaced immediately by the red, pulsing glow of the emergency backup system.
The sirens began to wail—a high, piercing scream that signaled a perimeter breach.
"Mommy!" Emma shrieked from the living room.
I dropped the knife and ran, my nursing instincts taking over. I found Emma and Oliver huddled beneath the heavy oak dining table, both of them crying, their small hands locked together.
Before I could pull them out, the heavy double doors of the main entrance were thrown open. Marco stepped into the room, his white shirt stained with soot and dark, crimson blood. He was holding a heavy black pistol in his right hand, his face a mask of pure, homicidal rage.
"Nico!" Marco roared toward the hallway. "Get the armored transport to the subterranean garage now! The Lucchese family used the treaty meeting to plant a device at the gate!"
He dropped to his knees by the table, scooping Oliver up in one arm and grabbing Emma with the other. He looked up at me, his blue eyes wild with an emotion I had never seen in him before—pure, unadulterated terror.
"They know, Sophia," Marco rasped, his voice shaking as he pulled all three of us toward the hidden service staircase behind the bookshelf. "Francesca saw the school records. Her father's hit squad isn't here for the territory. They're here to eliminate the Moretti line."
"Where are we going?" I shouted above the sound of gunfire echoing from the front courtyard.
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"My private safe house in upstate New York," Marco said, pushing us down the concrete steps of the hidden tunnel. "No one knows about it. Not my captains, not the lawyers. No one."
As we reached the armored SUV waiting in the dark garage, I looked at Marco’s bleeding shoulder. He had taken a bullet meant for our son during the initial blast. Despite his injury, his grip around our children didn't loosen for a single second. He was no longer just the mafia don defending his throne; he was a father fighting for his blood. And for the first time in six years, I realized I couldn't fight him anymore. We had to survive together.
