Chapter 7 - The War in Milan
Forty-eight hours later.
The private runway at Teterboro Airport was shrouded in a thick grey morning fog.
A sleek, black Gulfstream G650 stood idling near the private hanger, its twin engines humming a deep, continuous bass note that vibrated through the tarmac.
Nina stood near the loading stairs, wearing a dark wool coat, her hands tucked deep into her pockets. Beside her stood Ghost, wearing a plain leather collar—the studded tactical harness had been tossed into the trash back at the penthouse.
Lorenzo stepped out of the back of a bulletproof Cadillac Escalade, dressed in a sharp black suit and a cashmere overcoat. Rocco walked behind him, carrying two heavy tactical duffel bags.
“You don't have to come with me to Italy, Nina,” Lorenzo said, stepping up to her. “The Moretti syndicate in Milan has been cornered. My men are liquidating their operations as we speak. It will be dangerous.”
“He goes where I go,” Nina said firmly, looking down at Ghost, who immediately pressed his shoulder against her leg. “And after what we went through in your living room, I’m not letting him out of my sight again. Besides... you need someone to make sure you don't turn into a monster over there.”
Lorenzo looked at her for a long moment. A small, genuine warmth broke through his usually stoic features.
“I have twenty-two billion dollars in assets, Miss Vasquez,” Lorenzo said gently. “And yet, I am currently taking orders from a caterer from Queens.”
“Senior Event Coordinator,” Nina corrected with a tiny smile. “I got promoted when Marjorie resigned.”
Lorenzo chuckled—a deep, rich sound that made Ghost’s tail give a happy, thumping wag against the wet pavement.
“Board the plane,” Lorenzo said, holding open the gold-trimmed handrail for her. “Our flight to Milan takes eight hours.”
As they climbed the stairs into the luxurious cabin of the private jet, Rocco stepped beside Lorenzo, whispering under his breath:
“Boss... what about the breeding kennel in Bergamo? Allevamento Il Bastione?”
Lorenzo’s smile instantly vanished, replaced by an expression of cold, absolute judgment.
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“Burn it to the ground, Rocco,” Lorenzo ordered flatly. “Free every animal inside, wire ten million dollars to the local Italian animal welfare trust, and make sure the men who ran that facility never walk again.”
“Understood, Boss,” Rocco nodded, turning to make the call.
