Chapter 6 - A Crimson Vow
The interrogation of Theresa yielded the final piece of the puzzle. The Bratva were planning a full-scale assault on the Rossi estate during the upcoming winter gala, an annual event where all the major crime families gathered to maintain a fragile peace. Nikolai Volkov thought Salvatore would be distracted by his duties as host.
He was dead wrong.
"We turn the gala into a trap," Salvatore told Luca in the war room. "We let them infiltrate the outer perimeter. Once they are inside the courtyard, we lock it down and eliminate them all. No mercy. No prisoners."
"And Melanie, boss?" Luca asked. "The estate won't be safe during a firefight."
"She will be in the underground bunker beneath the master suite, guarded by you personally, Luca," Salvatore said, his voice leaving no room for argument. "If a single bullet gets near her, I will hold you personally responsible."
"With my life, Don Salvatore," Luca bowed.
On the night of the gala, the Rossi mansion was a vision of opulent grandeur. Hundreds of wealthy elites, corrupt politicians, and mafia bosses filled the grand ballroom, drinking expensive champagne under crystal chandeliers.
Melanie sat in her wheelchair in the master bedroom upstairs, wearing a stunning, custom-made emerald green silk gown that Salvatore had bought for her. The deep color contrasted beautifully with her pale skin, and despite her injuries, she looked breathtakingly regal.
Salvatore walked into the room, dressed in a flawless black tuxedo. He froze at the sight of her, a rare look of pure awe washing over his hardened features. He walked over and knelt before her wheelchair, taking her hands in his.
"You look absolutely beautiful, Melanie," he murmured, his voice thick with genuine emotion. "Like a queen."
"I'm scared, Salvatore," Melanie admitted, her fingers tightening around his. "I know what's going to happen tonight. I know the Russians are coming. Please... promise me you'll come back to me."
Salvatore leaned up and kissed her deeply, a sweet, lingering promise of survival. "I always come back to you, cara. You are my anchor, remember? I cannot drown as long as you are waiting for me."
An hour later, the trap was sprung.
Nikolai Volkov’s elite strike team breached the eastern gates of the estate, expecting a distracted house. Instead, the moment thirty armed Russian mercenaries stepped into the snow-covered courtyard, massive floodlights slammed on, blinding them.
The heavy iron gates slammed shut behind them, locking them in a kill zone.
From the balconies and windows above, Rossi soldiers opened fire with devastating precision. The courtyard turned into a chaotic battlefield of deafening gunfire, shattering glass, and crimson stains on the pure white snow.
Salvatore stood on the main balcony, an assault rifle in his hands, his face expressionless as he systematically eliminated the invaders. He fought with a cold, terrifying efficiency, a true king defending his castle and his woman.
Nikolai Volkov, who had managed to breach the side door with three of his bodyguards, frantically ran up the grand staircase, desperate to find Salvatore’s weak spot—the girl. He kicked open the door to the master suite, only to find the room empty, the entrance to the bunker hidden behind a heavy bookcase.
"Looking for me?"
Nikolai spun around to find Salvatore standing at the end of the hallway, his tuxedo covered in dust and a light splatter of blood. His eyes were completely hollow, the personification of death itself.
Nikolai pulled his gun, but Salvatore was faster. A double-tap to the chest dropped Nikolai’s bodyguards instantly. Nikolai fired wildly, a bullet grazing Salvatore’s shoulder, but Salvatore didn't even flinch. He marched forward through the gunfire, gripped Nikolai by the throat, and slammed him against the wall.
"I told you what would happen if you brought your filth near my home," Salvatore snarled, his grip tightening until Nikolai’s face turned purple, his legs kicking uselessly in the air.
"Please..." Nikolai choked out.
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"There is no mercy for monsters who target innocent women," Salvatore said coldly. With a brutal, swift twist of his powerful arms, a sickening crack echoed through the hallway. Nikolai Volkov’s body went limp, dropping to the floor like a sack of stones.
The battle for Chicago was over. The Rossi family had won.
