Chương 10 - The Unfinished Oath
I took a slow, deliberate breath of the smoke-filled air, letting the heat fill my lungs, burning away the last remnants of the frightened maid who had hidden her swollen fingers beneath a stained apron.
I stepped away from my father’s outstretched hand.
And walked directly to Luca’s side.
I reached out with my trembling, uninjured right hand and took hold of his lapel, anchoring myself to him.
"I'm not running anymore," I whispered, loud enough for both men to hear. "I spent ten months cleaning your house, Mr. Moretti. I'm not going to let them burn it down."
A slow, terrifying, triumphant smile curved Luca’s lips. The exhaustion in his face vanished, replaced by an ancient, predatory fire that made my heart leap in my chest.
Thomas Williams lowered his hand slowly. He stared at me for five long seconds, his jaw working, a storm of regret and reluctant respect warring behind his scarred features.
"You're just like your mother," Thomas muttered, his voice thick with an emotion he couldn't hide. "Stubborn enough to jump headfirst into an open furnace."
He turned his rifle toward the roof exit, signaling his men to fall back.
"The northern access road to your estate is still clear, Moretti," Thomas barked over his shoulder, slipping into his role as a commander. "My men will hit the Commission’s flank at the front gates in twenty minutes. If you want your house to stand until sunrise, you'd better drive like the devil is behind you."
"Thomas," Luca called out through the smoke.
The old enforcer paused at the threshold of the service door, looking back one last time.
"Thank you," Luca said simply.
Thomas gave a curt, almost imperceptible nod. "Keep her alive, boy. Or I'll come back from the dead a second time to skin you myself."
With that, the ghost of Bridgeport vanished into the shadows of the service stairwell, his squad melting away like smoke.
***
Forty minutes later, the Maybach slammed through the breached outer gates of the Moretti estate.
The scene was pure devastation.
The towering iron gates hung loosely from their stone pillars, riddled with heavy-caliber bullet holes. The manicured lawns were gouged by deep tire tracks, trees were splintered, and the black Escalades of the security detail were burning in the circular driveway, sending columns of thick black smoke into the gray pre-dawn sky.
Gunfire echoed across the estate grounds—the rhythmic, deafening chatter of assault rifles trading fire between the carriage house and the main mansion.
Luca kicked his door open before the Maybach had even fully stopped.
He didn't wear a tuxedo anymore; he had stripped down to his black dress shirt, rolling his sleeves to his elbows, an automatic shotgun resting in the crook of his arm and a high-caliber pistol holstered at his hip.
"Daniel! Secure the east terrace!" Luca roared, moving with lethal, explosive speed. "Push their snipers back toward the woods! Take no prisoners!"
"On it, boss!" Daniel racked the slide of his rifle, leading eight heavily armed men into the smoke toward the gardens.
Luca turned, reaching into the car, his strong hands encircling my waist as he lifted me out onto the gravel driveway. The cold autumn wind whipped through my torn velvet gown, the chill biting into my skin, but inside, my blood was boiling.
He guided me through the reinforced double doors of the mansion’s main entrance, slamming the heavy iron bolts into place behind us.
Inside, the grand foyer was remarkably untouched, though the distant rattle of gunfire vibrated through the limestone floor. The great chandelier hung intact, casting warm, golden light over the sweeping marble staircase.
Luca walked over to the center table in the foyer. He set the twin Caterina Moretti necklaces down upon the polished mahogany. Side by side.
One hundred carats of genuine Colombian emeralds, glowing like green fire under the chandelier light.
He picked up the original necklace—the one his mother had worn on her wedding day thirty years ago. He turned to me, his hazel eyes completely devoid of doubt, devoid of fear.
"Turn around, Nora," he said softly.
My breath hitched. "Luca..."
"Turn around."
I turned, lifting the heavy weight of my dark hair off my neck with my uninjured hand.
I felt the cool, heavy platinum settle against my collarbones. The emeralds felt icy against my skin, sending a violent shiver down my spine before warming to the heat of my body. Luca’s calloused fingers brushed against the sensitive skin of my nape as he fastened the intricate antique clasp.
The click of the lock sounded like an eternal vow.
I turned back to face him, looking down at the legendary jewels resting against the midnight-blue velvet of my gown.
"My mother's will had one condition for this piece," Luca whispered, his hands coming up to gently cup my face, his thumbs wiping away the dry soot on my cheekbones. "She said it could only belong to a woman who possessed the courage to stand beside a Moretti when the sky was falling."
He leaned down, his forehead resting against mine, his breath warm against my trembling lips.
"You're not my maid anymore, Nora," he murmured, his voice thick with raw, possessive intensity. "You are the queen of this house. And if they want to take you, they will have to walk over my corpse."
Before I could answer, a massive explosion shook the foundation of the house, rattling the crystal fixtures above.
The perimeter sirens wailed in a deafening, continuous scream.
Daniel’s voice crackled frantically through Luca’s earpiece, loud enough to echo in the silent foyer.
"Boss! The Commission's main convoy just breached the south perimeter! But that's not all... boss, you need to look at the security feeds! Marco Rossi’s men aren't shooting at us anymore!"
Luca frowned, pulling his radio up. "What are you talking about, Daniel?"
"They're shooting at each other!" Daniel shouted over the roar of gunfire. "A third convoy just entered the gates from the lakefront road! Unmarked armored trucks! They're flying the Bellini family banner, but Arturo is dead!"
Luca’s jaw set like stone. He stepped toward the security monitors mounted behind the concierge desk in the corner of the foyer.
I followed him, my heart pounding against my ribs, the heavy emeralds resting like an armor over my chest.
On the black-and-white monitors, a massive, reinforced black limousine had parked directly in front of the fountain. Surrounding it were dozens of heavily armed mercenaries, tearing through the Commission’s strike teams with terrifying efficiency.
The rear door of the limousine opened.
A figure stepped out under the pre-dawn mist, flanked by two towering bodyguards carrying white flags tied to the barrels of their rifles.
The figure looked directly up into the security camera.
My breath caught in my throat. My knees nearly buckled.
The person stepping out of that car wasn't a mob boss. It wasn't a hitman.
It was a woman in an immaculate, blood-red trench coat. Her dark hair was cut into a sharp bob, her lips painted crimson, holding an antique silver cane.
She looked directly into the lens, lifted her hand, and tapped her wedding ring against the silver handle.
The spitting image of Vanessa Bellini—yet five years older, colder, and wearing the official signet ring of the Bellini family matriarch.
A twin sister no one had ever spoken of.
Luca stared at the screen, his fingers tightening around the grip of his shotgun until his knuckles turned pure white.
"Gianna Bellini," Luca whispered, a dark, dangerous shock lacing his tone. "The daughter Arturo sent to Europe twelve years ago."
The front doors of the mansion shook under three heavy, rhythmic knocks.
A voice echoed through the external intercom speaker—smooth, melodic, and carrying the icy chill of an executioner.
*"Luca, darling,"* the woman’s voice purred through the static. *"Open the door. My little sister played her part terribly, but I brought you a gift. I have the heads of the Five Families in my trunk... and a proposition that Nora Williams might find very interesting."*
Luca looked from the heavy oak doors to me.
His eyes were filled with an unreadable, electric fire. The emeralds at my neck burned against my skin like an open flame.
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The war for Chicago hadn't ended.
It had only just begun.
