Chapter 7 - A Mother’s True Voice
The name Salvatore hit Dante like a physical blow. Even in the dim light of the cellar, I saw the shock ripple across his hardened features. Salvatore was his father’s younger brother—a man exiled to Europe fifteen years ago after a bloody, unsanctioned massacre that nearly brought federal marshals down upon the entire family.
"Salvatore wouldn't dare touch my mother," Dante said, his voice dangerously low.
Vance coughed up a harsh, rattling laugh. "Salvatore blames Rosa for his exile! He knows that Matteo only sent him away because Rosa demanded it! He doesn't want your shipping docks, Dante. He wants to burn this house to the ground with your mother inside it, so you can feel what it's like to lose everything."
Dante turned on his heel without another word, sprinting toward the cellar stairs. "Marco! Sound the perimeter alarm! Lock the third-floor corridors now!"
I ran after him, my boots slipping on the slick concrete steps. We burst into the main foyer just as the unmistakable crackle of automatic gunfire shattered the quiet night outside.
The heavy limestone manor shuddered as explosions detonated near the perimeter gates. Windows shattered in the east gallery, and the harsh wail of security sirens drowned out every sound. Dante drew a sleek black firearm from his shoulder holster, his eyes scanning the grand staircase.
"Get to my mother's quarters!" Dante shouted over the din, shoving me behind a stone pillar as bullets chipped away at the exterior plaster. "Take the service passage behind the library! There is an armored panic room inside the master closet! Do not come out until I open the door myself!"
"Dante, you can't fight them alone!" I screamed back.
"Go!" he roared.
I turned and sprinted through the smoky corridors, my heart hammering in my ears. Gunfire echoed from the courtyard, followed by the shouting of men in foreign dialects. I reached the third floor, dodging broken glass and fallen plaster, and kicked open the door to Rosa’s suite.
Rosa stood in the center of the room, holding an antique double-barreled shotgun with steady, practiced hands. She wasn't trembling anymore. The frail old woman from the restaurant had vanished; in her place stood the widow of Matteo Vitale, a matriarch who had survived four decades of gangland wars.
When she saw me, she lowered the barrels and signed rapidly: Where is my son?
Fighting in the courtyard, I signed, gasping for breath. Salvatore is here, Rosa! We must get to the safe room!
Rosa’s eyes flared with pure, fiery determination. She shook her head violently. No safe room. Salvatore knows the blueprints of this house. He built the safe rooms with Matteo thirty years ago. If we hide there, we will be trapped like rats.
She grabbed my wrist with astonishing strength, pulling me toward the private study adjoining her bedroom. Behind a heavy oil painting of the Italian countryside lay an ancient brass communication panel—an old hardwired intercom system that bypassed the manor’s modernized digital grid.
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She pointed to the master switch and signed with furious speed: This connects directly to the exterior loudspeaker system in the courtyard. The old guards—the men Salvatore hired—are loyal to money, but the local foot soldiers still remember my husband's code. Nora, you must speak for me. You must be my voice across the entire estate!
She flipped the master switch. A low feedback whine echoed through the brass speaker. Rosa stood tall, lifted her hands, and began signing the most powerful, impassioned message of her life, trusting me to turn her silent fury into an auditory weapon.
