Chapter 2 - The Weight of Steel
The rain did not let up as I carried Harper inside. She felt dangerously light against my chest, her cold, damp feet tucked beneath the heavy wool of my overcoat. The grand foyer of the Moretti estate was warm, smelling of lemon wax and woodsmoke, a bitter contrast to the raw terror humming beneath the floorboards.
Two enforcers, Nico and Lev, stepped forward from the shadows near the grand staircase. They didn't speak. They took one look at my face and reached beneath their custom-tailored jackets, their hands resting on the grips of their weapons. They had been with me long enough to know the difference between a routine homecoming and the declaration of a blood feud.
"Take her to the kitchen," I told Nico, handing the shivering child over to him. "Get her warm milk. Stay with her. If anyone—anyone at all—tries to take her out of your sight, you put a bullet between their eyes. Do you understand me?"
Nico nodded once, his expression turning to stone as he took Harper. "Understood, boss."
I turned toward the west wing corridor. Lev fell into step behind me, his heavy boots making no sound on the Persian rugs. My mind was operating with a cold, terrifying efficiency, cataloging every detail of the last ten months. Victoria Hale had entered my life like a summer breeze—gentle, unbothered by the violence that defined my name. She had been a gift from Victor Romano, my sworn brother, the man who had bled with me in the trenches of Chicago when the old families tried to erase the Moretti name.
“She’s pure, Aleandro,” Victor had told me, his arm slung over my shoulder as we watched her walk through the rose garden last spring. “You’ve spent enough time in the dark. You deserve someone who doesn't smell like gunpowder.”
I had believed him. Because you do not question the man who took a knife meant for your kidney when you were twenty-two.
We reached the heavy oak door that led to the basement stairs. The lock was electronic, installed five months ago under Victor’s security overhaul. I pressed my thumb against the scanner. The light flashed red. Access Denied.
A cold smile touched my lips. I looked at Lev. "Get the breach kit."
"Boss, that's the private reserve lock. The override code is held by Mr. Romano and Miss Victoria—"
"I don't care if God himself holds the code, Lev," I said, my voice dropping into a register that made the big man step back. "Bring the torch."
Three minutes later, the blue flame of a plasma torch cut through the high-grade steel mechanism. Sparks rained down onto the stone floor like dying stars, lighting up the narrow, damp staircase that descended into the belly of the estate. The smell hit me immediately as the door groaned open—not the rich, earthy scent of old oak barrels and aging grape, but the sharp, metallic tang of fear and stagnant water.
I drew my customized Beretta, clicking the safety off with a soft clack that echoed down the stairs.
The steps were cold beneath my leather shoes. The walls were rough-hewn stone, sweating with moisture from the storm outside. At the bottom of the stairs lay the old tasting room, empty save for a long mahogany table and rows of dusty bottles. But beyond the tasting room was the steel security vault—the place my father had built during the 1990 war to store our reserve currency and emergency manifests.
The heavy steel door was shut tight. A digital timer sat above the handle, its red digits counting down: 04:12:44.
I walked up to the door and pressed my ear against the cold metal.
For a second, there was nothing but the sound of my own blood rushing through my veins. Then, from the absolute darkness inside, came the sound.
Tap.
A long pause.
Tap.
It was weaker than Harper had described. The rhythm was slipping, losing its fight against the heavy, oxygen-deprived air of the vault.
"Mia," I called out, my voice striking the stone walls. "It's Aleandro. Step away from the door."
I looked back at Lev, who was standing at the base of the stairs with a heavy iron crowbar and a hydraulic jack. "We don't have time to drill the tumblers. Force the hinges."
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"Boss, if we force the hinges on a vault this size, the pressure lock might trigger an automatic ceiling collapse to preserve the contents," Lev warned, his forehead slick with sweat.
"Then you better be fast, Lev," I said, my eyes fixed on the red timer. "Because if that woman dies in my house, there won't be enough graves in this city for the people responsible."
