Chapter 4 - Claimed in the Blood
Damiano Moretti stood in the doorway.
The air in the room froze instantly. Behind him stood Tony and four armed syndicate enforcers, their weapons drawn and ready. But it was Damiano’s face that stopped time itself—dark, absolute, and radiating a lethal fury that made the very shadows cower.
In his right hand, Damiano held something up by its torn wires: a military-grade explosive charge, pulsing with a dead, deactivated red light.
Viktoria stopped fighting instantly. Underneath Sophia’s grip, her body went rigid. The polished, untouchable mask she wore cracked, revealing a flash of sheer, unadulterated panic in her pale blue eyes.
"Damiano..." Viktoria breathed, her voice trembling as Sophia scrambled back from her, breathless and bruised. "D-Damiano, darling, let me explain. It’s a trick—"
Damiano didn't raise his voice. He didn't yell. He walked slowly into the center of the room, his dark overcoat sweeping behind him like the wings of a predator.
"You had twelve minutes left on the timer, Viktoria," Damiano said softly, his voice cutting through the room like a razor. "I disarmed it at minute four. Did you really think my security team wouldn't sweep the primary grid before hosting five regional bosses?"
Viktoria scrambled to her feet, her dress torn at the hem, her composure entirely shattered. She looked around wildly at the armed guards blocking every exit. "You can't touch me! My father controls the entire Chicago transit grid! If you kill me, the Bratva will declare all-out war across every city on the coast!"
"War?" Damiano stopped two feet away from her. A cold, humorless smile touched his lips. "Viktoria, you misunderstand. I didn't come here to start a war. I came here to finish one."
He turned his head slightly, signaling to Tony. Two enforcers stepped forward, grabbing Viktoria roughly by the arms and binding her wrists with heavy steel zip-ties before she could scream.
As they dragged her thrashing and cursing toward the door, Damiano didn't even watch her leave. His dark eyes shifted slowly across the room until they landed on the corner behind the sofa, where six-year-old Emma was peering out, clutching her one-eyed rabbit with wide, terrified eyes.
Damiano walked over. He didn't tower over her; instead, just like he had in the hallway earlier, he lowered his massive frame until he was kneeling flat on the Persian rug, eye level with the little girl.
The room held its breath. Sophia watched from the floor, her heart in her throat, unsure if the most dangerous man in New York was about to reward her daughter or punish her for upending his entire world.
Damiano reached out. His large, calloused hand—a hand that had signed death warrants and brokered billion-dollar criminal empires—gently reached down and straightened the crumpled collar of Emma’s faded pink sweater.
"You have very good eyes, little one," Damiano said, his voice unusually soft. Then he stood up, turned around, and looked directly at Sophia, who was still kneeling on the floor.
He extended a hand, pulling Sophia up with effortless strength until she stood right beside him before the open parlor door.
"Tony," Damiano commanded without breaking eye contact with Sophia.
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"Boss?"
"Summon the five dons to the main dining hall immediately. Tell them the peace agreement has been canceled. And tell them the Moretti family is claiming its own."
