Chapter 4 - The Target on Emma's Back
The drive to my family’s second-floor walk-up in Bridgeport felt like a descent into purgatory.
I was sitting in the back of Luca Moretti’s armored Cadillac Escalade, sandwiched between tinted, bulletproof windows and the looming, silent figure of Luca himself. Bruno lay across the floorboards between our feet, his head resting heavily against my sneaker, breathing steadily now that he had been given clean water and a fast-acting glucose supplement from the manor’s medical stores.
Outside, the Chicago rain hammered against the reinforced glass with violent intensity. Streetlights smeared into blurry streaks of amber and crimson along the expressway.
My hands were shaking so violently I couldn't unlock my cracked smartphone.
“They aren't answering,” I choked out, tears of pure terror finally spilling over my eyelashes. “I’ve called Liam four times. He always answers his phone. Even during class, he texts back. Why isn't he answering?”
Luca reached across the leather console, his large, scarred hand closing firmly over both of mine. The contrast was stark: his fingers were steady, warm, and lethal; mine were icy and trembling.
“Breathe, Emma,” he commanded, his voice low, steady, and strangely grounding. “Panic will not keep them safe. My men are three minutes ahead of us. Dante is the best point man in the city. If Romano’s scavengers are there, they will find an iron wall.”
“You don't understand,” I whispered, looking into his grim face. “My mom can't run. She’s hooked up to a portable peritoneal dialysis cycler at night. She can’t even get out of bed without help. If someone kicks that door down—”
“No one is kicking that door down,” Luca interrupted, tightening his grip on my hands just enough to snap me out of the spiral. “Look at me, Emma.”
I looked up, meeting his piercing hazel gaze.
“I owe you my brother’s life,” Luca said, every word measured and deliberate. “I owe you Bruno’s life. On my father’s soul, I swear to you that your family will not bleed for my blind spots. You have my word as a Moretti.”
In the world I grew up in, a mafia boss’s word was usually synonymous with a death sentence. But sitting in that dark vehicle, feeling the unyielding heat of his hand and seeing the raw, protective fire burning behind his eyes, I believed him.
The Escalade screeched around the corner of 31st Street, tires throwing up arcs of muddy water.
Bridgeport was quiet, a working-class neighborhood of brick two-flats and rusted chain-link fences. But as we turned onto my block, the darkness was shattered by the flashing amber lights of three black SUVs parked haphazardly across the road, blocking off both ends of the street.
My heart vaulted into my throat.
On the asphalt outside our modest apartment building, two bodies in dark rain slickers lay face down, zip-tied and guarded by men in tactical vests holding submachine guns. A third man—a young, skinny kid I recognized as a local street enforcer for the Romano family—was pinned against the hood of an idling sedan by Dante’s massive forearm pressed against his windpipe.
“Dante!” Luca barked the moment the Escalade’s driver threw the SUV into park.
Luca stepped out into the rain before the engine had even cut. I scrambled out right behind him, ignoring the freezing spray that soaked through my shoes.
Dante turned as Luca approached, releasing his grip on the choking enforcer, who slumped to his knees on the wet pavement.
“Status,” Luca demanded.
“Clean sweep, boss,” Dante reported, wiping rain from his shaved head. “They were kicking the exterior deadbolt when we pulled up. They didn't even have time to unholster their pieces. We dropped the two lookouts with tasers and bagged this one before he could make a call.”
A sob of pure relief tore out of my throat. I pushed past Dante, running straight for the narrow wooden staircase that led up to our second-floor apartment.
“Liam! Mom!” I screamed, throwing open the unlocked exterior door.
I sprinted up the worn carpeted stairs, my heart pounding against my ribs like a sledgehammer. The apartment door was slightly ajar, the brass latch splintered where Romano’s thugs had attempted their breach.
I threw the door open.
Inside, standing in the cramped, linoleum-floored hallway, was my twenty-one-year-old brother, Liam. He was clutching an aluminum baseball bat with both hands, his face pale as chalk, his knuckles white. Behind him, seated in her armchair beside the whirring dialysis machine, was our mother, Martha, clutching a rosary to her chest, her lips moving in frantic, silent prayer.
“Emma!” Liam dropped the bat with a loud, metallic clatter and caught me as I threw my arms around his neck. “What is going on? There were guys outside with crowbars, and then four giant men in body armor took them down in the street! Emma, what did you get into?”
“I’m okay. You’re okay,” I sobbed, burying my face into his shoulder before pulling back and rushing to my mother’s side. “Mom, are you hurt?”
“I’m fine, sweetheart,” my mother whispered, her frail hands trembling as she touched my wet face. “Who are those men outside? Emma, what’s happening at that mansion you work at?”
Before I could manufacture a lie, heavy, deliberate footsteps sounded in the hallway.
The door swung wider, and Luca Moretti stepped into our cramped, fifty-year-old apartment.
He had to duck his head slightly to clear the low doorframe. His tailored overcoat was drenched with rain, his presence so massive and commanding that our entire living room seemed to shrink to the size of a closet.
Liam immediately stepped in front of our mother, his chest puffing out with youthful bravado, though his knees were clearly shaking. “Who the hell are you?”
“Liam, stop!” I pleaded, stepping between my brother and the mob boss. “This is Mr. Moretti. He’s... he’s my employer.”
Luca didn't look offended by Liam’s hostility. In fact, an appreciative glimmer passed through his eyes as he assessed my brother’s protective stance.
“You’re a good brother,” Luca said, his voice surprisingly gentle in the small room. He looked at my mother, bowing his head with deep, old-world respect. “Mrs. Sullivan. Forgive the intrusion, and forgive the violence on your doorstep. Your daughter saved someone very precious to me tonight. Because of that, people who wish me harm attempted to use your family as leverage.”
My mother blinked, her tired, cataract-clouded eyes taking in his expensive suit, the blood faintly staining his lapel, and the quiet authority that seemed to radiate from him like heat. “You’re the Moretti boy. Antonio’s son.”
Luca offered a faint, somber nod. “I am.”
“My late husband worked the rail yards with your grandfather,” she murmured softly. “He always said the Morettis were dangerous men, but they never broke a blood debt.”
“We never do,” Luca answered firmly. He stepped closer, producing a clean, dry handkerchief from his pocket and handing it to me to dry my face. “Pack one bag each. Medicines, essential documents, and clothing for three days. You cannot stay here. Salvatore Romano knows this address, and while my men hold the block tonight, by morning this building will not be safe.”
“Where are we supposed to go?” Liam demanded, crossing his arms defensively. “We don't have money for hotels, and my mom needs sterile equipment for her treatments!”
“You are coming to my estate,” Luca said without hesitation. “The north wing has a private medical suite fully equipped for dialysis. Dr. Vance will oversee your mother’s care personally. You will have around-the-clock security, private tutors if you need to keep up with your engineering courses, and complete immunity.”
Liam stared at him, dumbfounded. “Why? Emma is just a housekeeper.”
Luca’s gaze shifted to me. His eyes were intensely dark, holding mine with an intensity that made the air in the room feel suddenly scarce.
“Not anymore,” Luca said. “Your sister is the only person under my roof who showed true loyalty when everything fell apart. In my world, loyalty of that caliber cannot be bought with an hourly wage.”
He turned back toward the door, issuing orders to the guards waiting in the stairwell. “Bring up the transport gurney for Mrs. Sullivan. Load their belongings into the second truck. We move in five minutes.”
As the men went to work with military efficiency, I stood frozen beside the armchair. Within the span of four hours, my entire life had been uprooted. I was no longer a girl scrubbing floors in the shadows; I had been pulled straight into the beating, bloody heart of a syndicate war.
And as I caught Luca watching me from the hallway, his jaw tight with unresolved fury toward the enemies circling his empire, I realized something terrifying:
I wasn't just safe under his protection.
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I was becoming the anchor keeping the city’s most ruthless crime boss from losing his humanity entirely.
***
