Chapter 10 - The Sovereign Blood
The blast wall shattered with a deafening roar.
Matteo Bellini did not wait for his men to set charges. He had picked up a heavy tactical sledgehammer from a fallen maintenance crew on level four, swinging it with all the terrifying, engineered strength of Subject One.
The reinforced glass spider-webbed on the first strike.
On the second strike, the entire panel blew inward in a thousand diamond-hard fragments.
Vance’s two bodyguards raised their rifles, but Matteo was already through the breach. He closed the distance with terrifying velocity, driving the head of the sledgehammer into the chest plate of the first guard, launching the man backward into an instrument rack with enough force to shatter his ribcage.
The second guard swung his barrel toward Matteo’s face, but a single rifle shot echoed from the shattered doorway behind them.
Daniel Shaw stood in the breach, his rifle smoking, his eyes cold.
The second guard collapsed to the floor with a clean entry wound through his temple.
Dr. Arthur Vance didn't flinch.
He didn't run. He stood behind his terminal, slowly taking off his gold-rimmed spectacles and wiping them with a silk handkerchief as Matteo dropped the sledgehammer onto the floorboards with a heavy, metallic thud.
“You’ve ruined thirty years of work in twenty minutes, Matteo,” Vance said, his voice smooth, cultured, and devoid of fear. “Do you have any idea what this facility represents? The families who invested in these tanks govern this nation. Governors. Supreme Court nominees. The men who write the laws your little mafia family constantly trips over.”
Matteo stepped forward, his heavy boots crunching over the shattered glass. He reached out with one massive, blood-stained hand, grabbed the collar of Vance’s pristine white coat, and dragged the old man across the desk until their faces were inches apart.
“The medicine,” Matteo growled.
Vance chuckled softly, gesturing with his eyes toward the refrigerated aluminum case on the counter.
“There are only two doses in existence, Matteo,” Vance whispered, smiling with thin, bloodless lips. “The formula is on this drive. If that terminal finishes its purge, the synthesis code is gone forever. You can cure them today. But next year? What will you do next year when the timer runs out again?”
Matteo looked at the monitors.
**DATA PURGE: 96% COMPLETE**
Vance’s smile widened into a triumphant sneer. “You see the game now, don't you, Subject One? You can shoot me. You can burn this mill. But you will always belong to me. You will spend the rest of your life on your knees, begging me for the next vial. Begging me to keep those two little monsters alive.”
Matteo’s gray-green eyes burned into Vance’s soul.
“You’re wrong about one thing, old man,” Matteo said softly.
Vance’s smile faltered. “Am I?”
“You spent thirty years engineering the perfect predator,” Matteo whispered, leaning in until Vance could smell the gunpowder and blood on his breath. “You gave me your best traits. Your highest intelligence. Your most lethal instincts. But my father... Carmine Bellini... gave me something you couldn't synthesize in a jar.”
Matteo raised his Kimber pistol and pressed the cold muzzle against Vance’s kneecap.
“He gave me the stomach to do whatever it takes.”
*BANG.*
Vance let out an ear-splitting, agonizing shriek that echoed off the cold granite walls as the heavy hollow-point obliterated his joint. The old man collapsed onto the floor, clutching his shattered leg, weeping and hyperventilating in sudden, overwhelming agony.
Matteo didn't look down at him.
He stepped to the terminal, picked up the aluminum case containing the two golden ampoules, and pulled a thumb drive from the master port just as the screen blinked: **DATA PURGE COMPLETE.**
Matteo looked down at Daniel, who was standing beside the shattered glass, his face pale.
“Take the old man,” Matteo ordered.
Daniel looked stunned. “You aren't killing him?”
“No,” Matteo said, his voice flat and terrifyingly final. “Kill him, and the secret dies with him. Pack him in ice. Put him in the deepest cell beneath the Westchester wine cellar. Set up a fully equipped private laboratory directly across from his cage. If those girls need an enzyme next year, Dr. Vance will synthesize it with his own hands. And if he refuses... you can remove one of his fingers every morning until he remembers how to use a pipette.”
Daniel stared at Matteo. Then, slowly, the old chief of staff nodded, a dark understanding passing between them.
“Yes, boss.”
***
Three hours later, the storm had finally passed over the Westchester estate.
The late afternoon sun broke through the retreating thunderclouds, painting the sprawling lawns and marble terraces in warm, golden light.
Inside the private medical suite on the third floor of the manor, the atmosphere was hushed and reverent.
Dr. Harrison, the trusted Bellini family physician who had been flown in via private helicopter from Long Island, withdrew the empty syringe from Rosie’s small arm. The three-year-old gave a tiny whimper, rubbing her elbow with the sleeve of her yellow cardigan.
Across the room, Clara was sitting up on the examination bed, a small adhesive bandage covering the crook of her arm.
Grace Mercer was sitting on the edge of Clara’s mattress, holding Clara’s small hand in hers. Already, the faint blue discoloration beneath Clara’s fingernails had begun to recede, replaced by a healthy, warm flush of natural pink.
Matteo stood in the doorway, his wounded shoulder freshly stitched and wrapped beneath a clean black cashmere sweater. He had washed the soot and blood from his hands, but his eyes carried the weight of a man who had walked through the valley of the dead and dragged his family out with his bare teeth.
Rosie hopped down from the examination table, clutching her ragged cloth rabbit by the ear, and toddled straight across the hardwood floor toward Matteo.
She stopped at his boots, tilted her head back, and looked up at him.
“My hands aren't cold anymore,” Rosie announced matter-of-factly.
Matteo looked down at the tiny girl.
Then, for the first time since Elena had died three years ago, the most feared mafia boss in New York bent down, swept the little girl up into his arms, and settled her safely against his broad chest.
Rosie rested her small head against his shoulder without an ounce of fear.
Clara smiled from the bed, swinging her legs over the edge. “See? I told you Daddy’s medicine works.”
Grace looked up at Matteo. The terror that had haunted her eyes for three years was gone, replaced by an overwhelming, silent gratitude that no words could ever capture.
“Mr. Bellini,” Grace whispered, her voice trembling. “What happens now?”
Matteo looked around the room—at his daughter Clara, at Rosie resting against his chest, and at Grace, the woman who had risked her life to protect an innocent child from monsters.
“Now,” Matteo said quietly, “you stay. Both of you. The east wing is yours. Rosie will have the room next to Clara’s. You will have a full security detail, twenty-four hours a day. From this moment on, anyone who looks at either of these children looks at me.”
Grace’s breath caught in her throat. “You’re... you’re keeping both of them?”
“There are no redundancies in this house, Grace,” Matteo said, his voice ringing with absolute certainty. “There are only Bellinis.”
***
Late that night, Matteo sat alone in his study.
The grandfather clock ticked steadily against the wall. The green banker’s lamp cast a warm, solitary pool of light across the mahogany surface.
In front of him lay Elena’s leather-bound journal, closed. Beside it sat the thumb drive recovered from the mill, containing the thousands of encrypted files regarding the Legacy Initiative.
Matteo picked up his pen, opened the final blank page of Elena’s journal, and prepared to write the final chapter of their nightmare.
Before the ink could touch the paper, his private, encrypted satellite phone on the corner of the desk began to vibrate.
It was not a call.
It was a text message from a blocked, unregistered international satellite array.
Matteo picked up the phone. His thumb swiped across the screen.
The message contained a single, high-resolution photograph.
Matteo’s breath caught in his throat. His entire body turned to stone.
May you like
The photograph showed a playground in Geneva, Switzerland, taken from a surveillance vehicle across the street earlier that afternoon.
Playing on the swings, wearing
