Chapter 7 - THE GATHERING STORM
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Dominic did not flinch, but the warm light in his dark eyes instantly hardened into an icy, lethal focus.
He gently set Noah down on the bed, handing him a warm croissant and pointing to the cartoon playing silently on the flat screen.
“Eat your breakfast with your mom, Noah,” Dominic said, his voice miraculously calm and soothing.
“Daddy has to take care of some business downstairs.”
He kissed Noah’s forehead, then leaned down to press a firm, passionate kiss against my lips that tasted of coffee and fierce devotion.
“Stay in this suite, Claire,” he whispered against my cheek.
“Marcus has twelve men stationed in the corridor.”
“The biometric locks are engaged.”
“I’ll be back in an hour.”
I grabbed his wrist, my heart pounding with immediate, suffocating fear.
“Dominic, Salvatore is desperate,” I pleaded, looking into his eyes.
“He has nothing left to lose.”
Dominic covered my hand with his large, warm palm, squeezing gently.
“He has everything to lose, Claire,” Dominic countered softly.
“And I have a family to protect.”
He turned and walked out of the suite, the heavy reinforced doors clicking shut and locking with a sharp, electronic chime.
I stood by the tall bay window, holding Noah close as we watched four armored black Suburbans line up along the gravel drive below.
Down in the grand executive study on the ground floor, Dominic stood behind his massive oak desk.
On the mahogany surface lay a tactical map of northern Illinois, marked with red pins along the rail lines and industrial docks.
Uncle Carmine, the senior elder of the Moretti family, sat in the leather armchair, smoking a dark cigar with a troubled expression.
“Salvatore has gone mad, Dominic,” Carmine said, his raspy voice cutting through the tension.
“He knows the federal indictments mean life at ADX Florence.”
“He sold his remaining three cargo ships to the Bratva syndicate in Detroit for cash and heavy weapons.”
“He’s not running to Canada,” Dominic stated coldly, looking at the railway junction near Waukegan.
“He’s coming back to Chicago.”
“Why?” Carmine asked, blowing a thick cloud of blue smoke.
“Because he wants to kill Claire and Noah,” Dominic answered, each word dripping with venom.
“Salvatore knows that as long as my son breathes, the Moretti dynasty is secure for another generation.”
“He thinks that if he destroys my family, the Commission will crumble in the chaos and allow his captains to retake the territory.”
Marcus stepped forward, tapping the digital tablet on the desk.
“Our drones picked up two unmarked box trucks heading south on Route 41 twenty minutes ago, boss.”
“They bypassed the state police checkpoints using secondary gravel logging roads.”
“They are twenty miles away from our front gates.”
Dominic picked up a heavy black semi-automatic pistol from his desk drawer, checking the magazine with a sharp, practiced snap.
He holstered the weapon beneath his left arm, then grabbed his black tactical vest from the leather sofa.
“Let them come,” Dominic said, his voice flat, steady, and terrifyingly certain.
“Salvatore thinks he is attacking an estate.”
“He doesn't know he is walking into an execution chamber.”
He looked at Uncle Carmine and Marcus, his eyes blazing with the ancient, unyielding authority of the Moretti bloodline.
“Evacuate the domestic staff to the subterranean bunkers.”
“Activate the perimeter claymores along the eastern tree line.”
“And tell the men that anyone wearing Bellini colors does not leave this property alive.”
Dominic pulled his encrypted phone from his pocket and dialed the private direct line to Special Agent Miller at the FBI field office.
“Miller,” Dominic said when the agent answered.
“The Bellini mercenary cell will breach the north gates of my estate in fifteen minutes.”
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“Have your tactical teams surround the highway perimeter.”
“And bring thirty body bags.”
