Chapter 3 – THE TRAITOR IN THE DINING ROOM

“Stay behind me,” Luca ordered, his voice devoid of all human emotion.

He wasn’t my husband anymore. He was the monster Chicago feared.

We ran back down the grand staircase. The dining room was in utter chaos. Aunts were weeping, cousins were shouting on their phones, and Marco’s security team was blocking all the exits.

As we reached the bottom step, the heavy crystal chandelier above the dining table suddenly flickered.

Then, the entire mansion plunged into pitch-black darkness.

Screams erupted from the dining room.

“Don’t move!” Luca roared over the panic. He grabbed my wrist, pulling me hard against his chest. “Marco! Auxiliary power!”

“They cut the generator lines, boss!” Marco shouted from the darkness of the foyer.

My heart pounded so hard it physically hurt. Mia was terrified of the dark. She was somewhere in this house, or already gone, dragged into the night by her own flesh and blood.

A flashlight beam cut through the blackness, then another, as the security guards illuminated the room.

The twenty-three relatives were huddled together.

But one chair was empty.

“Where is Paulie?” Luca demanded, the beam of his flashlight sweeping across the terrified faces of his family.

Nonna Francesca sat perfectly still in her chair. “He slipped out through the kitchen the moment the lights dropped.”

Luca let go of my wrist. “Marco, secure my wife. Nobody leaves this room.”

“No!” I screamed, grabbing his arm. “She is my daughter! I am not waiting in the dark!”

Luca looked at me. He saw the fierce, maternal violence in my eyes—a violence that matched his own. He didn’t argue. He nodded once.

We moved as a single unit toward the kitchen swinging doors.

The industrial kitchen was silent. The smell of roasted garlic and rosemary still hung in the air, a sickening reminder of the family dinner that had just destroyed my life.

Luca’s flashlight caught a smear of wet mud on the pristine white tiles.

It led toward the pantry.

Luca kicked the pantry door open, his gun raised.

It was empty, but the heavy service door leading to the underground parking garage was slightly ajar.

We descended the concrete stairs, the silence heavy and suffocating. The garage was cold, smelling of gasoline and damp earth.

“Paulie!” Luca’s voice boomed off the concrete walls. “If you put her in a car, I will skin you alive!”

A quiet, terrified whimper echoed from the far corner of the garage.

It was Mia.

“Mommy?”

“Mia!” I screamed, sprinting toward the sound.

“Emma, stop!” Luca yelled.

But I couldn’t stop. I ran past the line of armored SUVs. In the darkest corner, near the freight elevator, a shadow moved.

A flashlight clicked on, blinding me.

“Not another step, Emma.”

I froze.

Standing by the elevator doors was Uncle Paulie. He was in his sixties, overweight, sweating profusely through his expensive suit.

In his left hand, he held my six-year-old daughter by the collar of her nightgown.

In his right hand, he held a revolver pressed directly against Mia’s temple.

Mia was sobbing quietly, her bare feet shivering on the cold concrete. She was clutching something tightly against her chest—a crumpled piece of paper.

“Let her go, Paulie,” Luca said, stepping out from behind an SUV, his own gun leveled perfectly at his uncle’s head.

Paulie’s hand was shaking violently. “I had to do it, Luca. The Bellinis promised they would spare the rest of the family if I gave them the girl and the wife.”

“You invited them into my home,” Luca hissed. “You let Vanessa distract me.”

“She’s the heir!” Paulie cried, tears of sheer panic running down his face. “If she lives, the war never ends! The Bellinis will burn Chicago to the ground!”

“Put the gun down,” I begged, taking a slow step forward. “Paulie, please. I cooked you Sunday dinner. I took care of your wife when she was dying. Please, give me my baby.”

Paulie looked at me, his resolve cracking slightly. “I’m sorry, Emma. I really am.”

He moved his finger to the trigger.

A deafening gunshot echoed through the concrete garage.

I screamed, falling to my knees.

But it wasn’t Paulie’s gun that fired.

Paulie’s eyes went wide. A dark red circle blossomed perfectly in the center of his forehead. He collapsed backward, dropping his weapon.

Luca didn’t lower his gun. Smoke drifted from the barrel.

I scrambled across the concrete and pulled Mia into my arms, burying her face in my shoulder. She was crying hysterically, her small body trembling uncontrollably.

“I have you,” I wept, kissing her hair. “Mommy has you.”

Luca walked over to his dead uncle. He didn’t show an ounce of remorse. He kicked Paulie’s gun away.

“Emma, we have to move,” Luca said. “If Paulie was trying to take her down to the garage, the Bellini extraction team is already waiting outside those doors.”

I stood up, holding Mia tightly. As I lifted her, the crumpled piece of paper she had been clutching fell to the floor.

Luca shined his flashlight on it.

It wasn’t just a piece of paper.

It was a child’s drawing.

Mia had drawn a picture of our family—me, Luca, and her.

But someone had taken a thick red marker and violently crossed out Luca’s face.

And written beneath it, in elegant, unmistakable cursive, was a single sentence.

“You were supposed to kill the husband, Paulie.”

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