Chapter 5 - The Council of Wolves
Dominic didn't hesitate. He stepped out of the vehicle into the pouring rain, racking the slide of a sleek black semi-automatic pistol he pulled from a hidden holster under his arm.
“Gino, lock the doors,” Dominic ordered, his voice cold enough to freeze water. “Keep her and the boy in the car.”
“Wait!” Sophie called out, leaning over the doorframe. “You can’t leave him in a car with running exhaust! The carbon fumes will trigger his arrhythmia!”
Dominic paused, looking back at her through the rain. He saw the genuine, unyielding protective fury in her eyes.
He turned to Gino. “Bring her inside. Up the back stairs to the nursery. If anyone tries to enter that room without my code, put a bullet through their knee.”
They moved quickly through the service entrance of the massive mansion. The interior was magnificent—soaring marble ceilings, priceless oil paintings, dark mahogany woodwork—but it felt cold, empty, and suffocating, like a museum built for a dead king.
As Gino guided Sophie up the grand spiral staircase, the heavy oak doors of the main formal parlor below slammed open.
Shouting boomed up through the cavernous foyer.
“He’s a newborn, Dominic!” a harsh, booming voice roared from downstairs. Vincent Moretti—Dominic’s younger, ambitious brother. “Clara is dead! The Outfit needs leadership, not a grieving widower playing father to a sickly bastard who won't survive the winter!”
Sophie paused on the landing, clutching Nico tightly against her shoulder. She looked down over the marble balustrade.
Standing in the center of the grand parlor below was Dominic, flanked by six armed loyalists. Facing him was a group of older, sharp-suited men—the commission heads of Chicago’s underground networks—led by Vincent Moretti.
Vincent was younger, sleeker, with sneering, arrogant features and an expensive Italian suit.
“Watch your tongue, Vincent,” Dominic said, his voice terrifyingly calm as he raised his weapon, aiming it directly at his brother’s forehead. “You speak of my son again, and I’ll paint this rug with your brains.”
“The Commission rules are clear, Dominic!” one of the older bosses, an grey-haired man named Don Carmine, spoke up, leaning on a silver-topped cane. “A boss who cannot produce a healthy, thriving heir to secure the family bloodline within thirty days of his wife’s passing must step down in favor of the secondary line! Look at you! You’re losing your mind over a baby that cries himself to death!”
“He isn't dying,” Dominic growled.
“Then show him to us!” Vincent challenged, stepping closer, a cruel smirk on his lips. “Bring the boy down! Let the Commission’s doctor examine him right now! If he’s healthy, we back off. If he’s sick—if he inherited Clara’s weak, failing blood—the Commission assumes trusteeship of the Moretti assets tonight!”
Sophie felt her stomach drop.
They weren't just grieving relatives or ruthless mobsters. They were vultures, using a newborn child’s medical fragility as a weapon to execute a corporate coup.
Gino tugged at Sophie’s sleeve. “Miss Lane, move! Upstairs! Now!”
Sophie didn't move toward the stairs. She looked down at the dark, powerful man standing alone in that room, fighting off a room full of wolves trying to tear his dead wife’s legacy apart.
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She looked down at Nico, who was starting to squirm again, his little nose twitching as the tense, shouting voices downstairs began to echo through his sensitive ears.
Sophie took a deep breath, adjusted the baby against her shoulder, and began walking down the grand marble staircase.
