Chapter 7 - The Wolf Claims His Den
Down in the great hall, the battle was over before it truly began. Don Emilio’s personal guards, tipped off by Vincent’s surveillance network, had funneled the remaining ten infiltrators straight into a pre-rigged kill zone in the courtyard. The black stone tiles of the estate were slick with rain and the blood of those foolish enough to challenge the Moretti threshold.
Nikolai Tarasov himself had been taken alive, bound in heavy steel chains and forced onto his knees in the center of the underground wine cellar.
The heavy iron door groaned open, and Vincent descended the stone steps, looking immaculate in a fresh charcoal suit. I walked half a step behind him, no longer wearing torn, borrowed rags. I wore a custom emerald-green silk dress that flowed like liquid emerald around my ankles, my hair pinned up with diamond combs bearing the Moretti crest. For the first time in my life, I walked with the unshakeable grace of a woman who knew she was loved, protected, and entirely sovereign.
Tarasov spat a mouthful of blood onto the damp floorboards, glaring at Vincent with wild, defiant eyes. ""You think you've won, Moretti? Beatrice and Elena have already fled to the international terminal! By midnight, they'll be in Zurich with their accounts liquidated! And the rest of the Five Families know you've gone soft for a common scullery maid and her bastard brood!""
Vincent didn't answer with words. He walked calmly over to the wooden table, picked up a pair of heavy iron shears, and laid them beside Tarasov’s trembling hand.
""You made a fatal miscalculation, Nikolai,"" Vincent said softly, his voice echoing off the stone arches. ""You assumed I became dangerous because of my name. The truth is, I spent four years empty, hollow, waiting for a reason to live or die. Now I have a wife. I have six beautiful children carrying my soul into the future. That does not make me soft.""
Vincent leaned down, his storm-gray eyes boring into the Russian boss’s soul. ""That makes me an extinction-level event.""
Before Tarasov could beg, Luca entered the cellar, holding a secured tablet displaying a live video feed from private hangar four at the international airport. On the screen, Beatrice and Elena were being forced onto their knees on the tarmac by a dozen armed Moretti soldiers. Their designer suitcases were split open, stacks of bearer bonds and diamond jewelry spilling out into the cold rain. Elena was weeping hysterically, her blonde hair plastered to her face, begging the silent guards for mercy.
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""Bring them here,"" I spoke up, my voice ringing clear and authoritative through the cellar.
Both Vincent and Tarasov looked up at me. Vincent’s lips curved into an admiring, predatory smirk. ""You heard my wife,"" he instructed Luca. ""Bring our beloved stepfamily home. It’s time for a proper family reunion.""
