Chapter 6 – The Rosebush in the Rain

“They’re heading to Elm Street, Boss. Antonio already figured it out.”

The words echoed in the blood-stained bedroom, freezing the air in my lungs. My mother’s house. The place where I had grown up, where Emma had taken her first steps. It was about to become a warzone.

“How far away are they?” Roman demanded, his voice slicing through the panic like a blade.

“Ten minutes, Boss,” Marco reported rapidly, checking a tablet. “They’re taking the expressway.”

“We’re five minutes away if we take the back roads,” Roman calculated instantly. He turned to me, his dark eyes burning with lethal determination. “We have to beat them there. If Antonio secures that token, he empties the accounts, pays off the cartel, and buys an army big enough to wipe this family off the map.”

“I’m coming with you,” I said, not as a question, but as a statement.

“Absolutely not,” Roman refused, grabbing my shoulders. “It’s going to be a bloodbath, Laura. You and Emma stay here with my mother. It’s a fortress.”

“It’s my mother’s house, Roman!” I pleaded, desperation clawing at my throat. “I know every inch of that property. I know exactly where the rosebush is. You don’t have time to dig up the entire yard in the dark while under fire. You need me to find it quickly.”

Roman stared at me, his jaw clenching as he weighed the tactical advantage against the agonizing risk of losing me. He looked at Sofia.

The matriarch offered a slow, grim nod of approval. “She’s right, Roman. Time is the only weapon you have right now. Take her.”

Roman cursed under his breath, a sharp, violent sound. He let go of my shoulders and drew a heavy, tactical flashlight from his belt, handing it to me.

“Stay exactly one step behind me,” Roman ordered, his voice dropping to a fierce whisper. “Do not deviate. Do not hesitate.”

“I won’t,” I promised.

I turned to Emma, kissing her forehead fiercely. “Stay with Sofia, baby. I’ll be right back.”

“Be careful, Mom,” Emma cried, clutching my arm before letting me go.

Two minutes later, Roman and I were in the back of a heavily armored black SUV, tearing through the rain-slicked streets of Chicago. Marco drove with terrifying precision, the massive engine roaring as we blew through red lights, flanked by two more vehicles packed with Castellano loyalists.

I sat close to Roman in the back seat, my heart hammering against my ribs. The adrenaline was a physical weight in my chest.

Roman reached over, his large, warm hand covering my trembling, cold fingers. He didn’t say a word, but the steady pressure of his grip anchored me in the chaos.

“We’re three blocks out,” Marco announced from the driver’s seat. “I’m cutting the headlights.”

The SUV plunged into darkness as Marco killed the lights, navigating the familiar, quiet suburban streets by memory and moonlight. The neighborhood was dead silent, the normal families asleep in their homes, completely unaware of the violence descending upon them.

We rolled to a slow, silent stop at the end of Elm Street.

My breath caught.

There it was. The small, white-clapboard house with the faded blue shutters. It looked exactly as it had the day my mother died, untouched by the two years of Steven’s deceit.

“Perimeter check,” Roman whispered into his radio.

“Clear, Boss,” a scout reported. “No sign of Antonio’s vans yet. We have a three-minute window.”

“Move,” Roman commanded.

We slipped out of the SUV into the freezing rain. Four guards fanned out, securing the street, their suppressed assault rifles raised.

Roman grabbed my hand, pulling me into a low sprint across the wet, overgrown lawn. We reached the front porch, crouching beneath the low brick wall.

“Where is it?” Roman asked, scanning the dark yard.

“There,” I pointed to a massive, tangled rosebush near the corner of the house. It was ancient, its thick, thorny vines sprawling across the soil.

We rushed over to it. The rain was coming down harder now, turning the dirt into thick mud.

“Dig,” Roman ordered, dropping to his knees.

He didn’t care about his expensive suit. He dug into the wet earth with his bare hands, tearing through the thorny roots. I dropped beside him, clawing at the mud, ignoring the sharp thorns tearing at my skin and snagging my clothes.

“Deeper,” I urged, my fingers numb from the cold. “Steven would have buried it deep so the landscaping crew wouldn’t hit it.”

We dug frantically, our hands covered in blood and mud, fighting against the ticking clock.

Suddenly, Roman’s knuckles struck something hard and metallic.

“I got it,” Roman grunted, hauling a small, heavy steel lockbox out of the mud.

It was sealed with a heavy brass padlock.

“We don’t have the key,” I panicked, staring at the lock.

“I don’t need one,” Roman said coldly.

He pulled a sleek, heavy combat knife from his boot, wedged the thick blade under the hasp of the padlock, and wrenched it sideways with a violent surge of strength. The cheap brass snapped with a loud crack.

Roman threw the lid open.

Resting inside a waterproof plastic bag was a small, black USB security token.

“We have the token,” Roman breathed, profound relief washing over his muddy face. He shoved the token into his pocket. “Marco! We have it! Fall back to the vehicles!”

But as we turned to run back toward the street, a blinding pair of high-beam headlights suddenly flooded the front yard, illuminating us like deer in headlights.

The roar of massive engines shattered the quiet neighborhood.

Three heavily armored black vans skidded to a halt directly in front of the house, blocking our SUVs in completely.

“Ambush!” Marco roared from the street, raising his rifle.

The side doors of the vans flew open. Dozens of heavily armed mercenaries poured out, taking cover behind the vehicles, their weapons aimed squarely at us.

And stepping out of the lead van, wearing a pristine tailored suit protected by an umbrella held by a guard, was Antonio Castellano.

Roman’s uncle. The man who had orchestrated the entire nightmare.

Antonio smiled, a cold, aristocratic sneer that perfectly mirrored the arrogance of a man who believed he had already won.

“Hello, nephew,” Antonio called out, his voice amplified by a small megaphone. “It seems we both had the same idea tonight.”

Roman stepped in front of me, completely shielding my body with his own. He drew his handgun, leveling it directly at his uncle’s chest.

“You’re too late, Antonio,” Roman yelled back, his voice echoing in the rain. “I have the token. The cartel’s money is gone. You have nothing left to offer them.”

Antonio laughed. It was a dry, grating sound.

“You underestimate me, Luca,” Antonio mocked, using Roman’s middle name as an insult. “I don’t need the money to buy the cartel’s loyalty tonight. I already bought it with a much more valuable currency.”

Roman frowned, keeping his weapon steady. “What currency?”

Antonio snapped his fingers.

The back doors of the third van swung open.

My heart completely stopped. The air vanished from my lungs.

Two mercenaries dragged a woman out of the van, throwing her roughly onto the wet pavement in front of Antonio. She was bound, gagged, and bruised, wearing a torn cream-colored satin dress.

It was Isabella.

“Isabella!” Roman roared, a sound of pure, unadulterated agony tearing from his throat. He took a frantic step forward, but Marco grabbed his arm, holding him back from the line of fire.

Antonio smiled down at his niece, resting the tip of his umbrella near her head.

“I told the cartel that the current Don is weak,” Antonio announced to the street. “I told them he lets sentimentality cloud his judgment. So, we struck a deal. I deliver the Don and his beloved sister to them as a show of good faith, and they back my claim to the throne.”

Antonio looked at Roman, his eyes dead and merciless.

“Toss the token into the street, Roman,” Antonio commanded softly. “Drop your weapons. Get on your knees. Or I blow your sister’s brains all over this lovely lawn.”

Roman stood frozen, the token burning a hole in his pocket, the choice impossible.

His empire, or his sister.

“Roman, don’t do it,” Isabella muffled through her gag, shaking her head frantically, tears streaming down her face.

Roman closed his eyes for a fraction of a second. When he opened them, the ruthless Don was gone. He was just a brother, broken and desperate.

He slowly lowered his gun.

“Okay,” Roman whispered, his voice cracking. “Okay, Antonio. You win.”

He reached into his pocket to pull out the token.

But before his hand could emerge, a deafening, thunderous explosion erupted from the sky directly above us.

BOOM.

The front porch of the house adjacent to ours exploded into a shower of splinters and flame.

The mercenaries shrieked in panic, diving for cover as a second explosion tore through the street, obliterating the front hood of Antonio’s lead van.

“What the hell is that?!” Antonio screamed, dropping his umbrella and cowering behind his guards.

I looked up through the rain and the smoke.

Standing on the roof of my mother’s house, silhouetted against the stormy night sky, was a lone figure holding a massive, military-grade grenade launcher.

The figure lowered the weapon, pulling a walkie-talkie to their mouth.

“I told you, Antonio,” a voice echoed loudly through the tactical radio frequency, broadcasting from the roof.

The voice didn’t belong to a man.

It belonged to Sofia Castellano.

“Nobody murders guests in my home,” Sofia’s voice boomed. “And absolutely nobody touches my daughter.”

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