Chapter 6 - Blood on the White Linen
Uncle Corrado did not survive fifty years in the Chicago underworld by surrendering easily.
The moment Luca took a single step toward him, Corrado’s hand dropped below the table line.
I saw the movement before anyone else did.
"Luca!" I screamed, lunging forward without thinking, grabbing the heavy silver water pitcher from the table and hurling it with all my strength.
The heavy pitcher struck Corrado’s shoulder just as the deafening crack of a gunshot shattered the ballroom’s stillness.
The bullet tore through the fabric of Luca’s tux, grazing his ribs, leaving a burning black streak against the white silk of his shirt.
Chaos erupted in an instant.
Chairs overturned, tables slammed to the floor, and women’s screams merged with the thunderous roar of automatic gunfire as Luca’s men engaged Corrado’s loyalists along the perimeter.
Luca didn't flinch from the gunshot; he didn't even look down at the blood blooming across his side.
With the speed of a striking viper, he vaulted across the banquet table, shattering fine china and crystal stemware beneath his heavy leather shoes.
He slammed Corrado backward into the wood-paneled wall, his left hand locking around the old man’s throat while his right wrenched the snub-nosed revolver from Corrado’s fingers.
"Elena, down!" Luca roared over the deafening noise, not taking his eyes off his uncle.
I dropped behind the heavy oak table, curling into a ball, my arms wrapped protectively over my stomach as plaster and wood splinters rained down around me.
Vincent slid onto the floor beside me, his tailored suit ruined, covering my head with his briefcase as bullets chipped the marble columns above us.
"Stay down, Mrs. Moretti!" Vincent yelled, his voice cracking with terror.
"He’s got him! Stay down!"
Across the room, the gunfire stopped as quickly as it had begun.
Luca’s perimeter team had systematically eliminated Corrado’s four armed guards, leaving them lifeless on the antique Persian rugs.
The rest of the council bosses stood against the walls with their hands raised, signaling their neutrality, unwilling to die for an old man’s failed coup.
The only sound left in the cavernous ballroom was the ragged, choking gasp of Uncle Corrado as Luca hoisted him two feet off the floor by his throat.
Luca’s side was drenched in dark red blood, his face covered in soot and sweat, looking more like an ancient god of war than a modern businessman.
"Did you really think," Luca hissed into Corrado’s bulging eyes, "that I would let you breathe the same air as my child?"
"Luca... please..." Corrado wheezed, his fingers frantically clawing at Luca’s iron grip.
"Family... we are... blood..."
"My blood is sitting under that table," Luca spat, his voice shaking with absolute, unadulterated fury.
"You are just an old dog who forgot who feeds him."
Luca didn't draw a gun.
He dropped Corrado to his knees, drew a sleek, pearl-handled blade from his ankle holster, and pressed the flat of the cold steel against the old man’s cheek.
The entire commission watched in terrified silence.
No one moved.
No one spoke.
Even Bianca Romano stood perfectly still, her face pale, recognizing that the balance of power in the Midwest had just permanently tilted toward the man standing in the center of the room.
"Under the third council charter," Luca announced, his voice booming across the devastated hall, "the penalty for conspiracy against the bloodline is total forfeiture."
"Corrado’s docks, his warehouses, his trucking lines, and his seat at this table now belong to my household."
Luca looked around the room, his eyes daring any man to raise an objection.
Not a single boss spoke.
The Don of Detroit slowly nodded his head in solemn assent.
The Don of Cleveland did the same.
The succession was settled; the rebellion was crushed before it could even begin.
Luca turned his blade in his hand, looking down at his gasping uncle.
"I won't kill you here, Uncle," Luca whispered, though the silence was so absolute that everyone heard it.
"Because I want you to sit in a cell at the docks for the next seven months."
"I want you to hear the bells ring across this city on the day my son is born."
"And on that day, when he takes his first breath, you will take your last."
Luca nodded to two of his soldiers, who stepped forward and dragged the sobbing, broken old man away across the shattered glass.
Luca dropped the blade onto the bloody tablecloth with a dull metallic clatter.
The terrifying mob boss vanished, replaced instantly by the desperate, bleeding husband.
He turned toward the overturned table, ignoring his own wound, and dropped to his knees on the glass-strewn floor beside me.
"Elena," he gasped, his bloody hands hovering inches from me, afraid to touch my clean dress.
"Elena, are you hit? Tell me you're not hit."
I crawled out from under the table, looking at the blood pouring from his side, tears streaming down my face.
"I'm fine," I sobbed, throwing my arms around his neck, not caring that his blood was soaking into my emerald silk dress.
"I'm fine, Luca, but you're bleeding, oh God, you're bleeding—"
He buried his face in my neck, his entire body trembling with an intensity that terrified me more than the gunfire had.
"I don't care about the blood," he choked out, his arms locking around me so tightly I could barely breathe.
"You're alive."
"My family is alive."
I pulled back slightly, looking into the eyes of the man I had planned to divorce just yesterday.
The coldness was gone; the distance that had haunted our marriage for six months had burned away in the fire of this room.
He placed his trembling, bloodstained palm against my stomach, his head bowing until his forehead rested against mine.
"Forgive me," he whispered, a broken plea between husband and wife.
"I will spend the rest of my life making you forgive me, Elena."
I reached up, wiping the soot from his cheek, feeling the steady, thundering beat of his heart against my chest.
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"Just get us out of here, Luca," I whispered back.
"Take us home."
