Chapter 2 - Bloodlines and Bullet Holes"Rocco! Get the girl!" Dario roared.
The silence of the early morning shattered into total chaos. Dario reacted with the ruthless, instinctual speed that had kept him alive through twenty years of mafia turf wars. He ripped his custom snub-nosed revolver from his inner holster, firing three rapid shots into the lead shooter advancing from the gate. The man went down with a heavy thud, spraying crimson onto the snow-dusted grass.
Rocco sprinted toward the five-year-old, scooping her up under one arm like a football while drawing his own automatic pistol with the other. The little girl let out a blood-curdling scream, her tiny hands clinging desperately to Rocco’s jacket as bullets began to tear through the sycamore trees, chewing up bark and stone.
"Get her into the alley behind the warehouse!" Dario ordered, retreating behind a thick concrete water fountain while laying down suppressive fire. "Call the main house! Tell Antonio to bring the entire vanguard!"
"They jammed the local frequencies, Boss!" Rocco yelled back, ducking behind a iron park bench as a hail of 9mm rounds peppered the metal. "We’re cut off! It’s the Moretti strike team—that’s Don Victor’s personal cleanup crew!"
Dario’s eyes went dark with a lethal fury. Don Victor Moretti—the old rat who had claimed he was an ally to the Falcone family before the great massacre twenty years ago. Victor had promised peace, yet he was the one who had taken everything from Dario.
He didn't just murder my family, Dario realized, a cold realization settling into his veins as he reloaded his weapon with practiced speed. He kept Bianca alive. He used her.
"Dario!" Rocco called out, crouched low with the sobbing child. "They’re flanking us from the west street!"
Dario stepped out from behind the fountain, completely unbothered by the incoming lead. He fired two precise shots, dropping a gunman aiming at Rocco’s position. He sprinted through the crossfire, grabbing his niece from Rocco's arms and holding her tight against his chest.
The little girl’s face was buried in his collarbone, her small frame shaking violently. "Un-uncle?" she sobbed, using the word her mother must have whispered to her a thousand times in dark rooms. "Are you the man from the picture?"
"Yes," Dario said softly into her hair, his voice solid as iron despite the roaring gunfire around them. "I'm your uncle Dario. And nobody is ever going to hurt you again."
He turned to Rocco. "We break through the north fence. My sedan is two blocks up. Move!"
They sprinted through the thick fog, using the heavy stone structures of the old park as cover. The Moretti mercenaries were closing in, their shouts echoing in Italian and English, demanding the child be eliminated at all costs.
Dario slammed his shoulder against the chain-link fence at the edge of the park, creating just enough space for Rocco to kick it open. They burst onto the deserted asphalt of the industrial strip just as a black SUV rounded the corner, tires screeching, heading straight for them.
Dario didn't dodge. He stood his ground in the middle of the road, raised his weapon, and put four rounds directly through the windshield. The driver slouched over the wheel, and the SUV veered violently off course, crashing into an abandoned brick warehouse with a deafening crunch of metal and glass.
Dario didn't look back. He ran down the street, holding the little girl tight against his chest, her mother’s letter crumpled inside his pocket, burning like a hot coal against his hip.
They reached his blacked-out armored sedan parked near an empty dock. Dario threw the child into the back seat, slid behind the wheel, and slammed the heavy door shut just as Rocco dove into the passenger side.
Dario jammed the key into the ignition, the engine roaring to life like a caged beast. He slammed his foot on the accelerator, tearing away into the morning light, leaving the blood-soaked park behind.
"Where are we going, Boss?" Rocco panted, reloading his magazine with trembling fingers. "The penthouse isn't safe if Moretti knows about the kid."
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Dario caught his niece’s tear-stained face in the rear-view mirror.
"We're going to the Compound," Dario growled, his hand tightening on the steering wheel until his knuckles turned ghost-white. "And then I'm going to tear Brooklyn apart piece by piece until Don Victor tells me why my sister died in cold blood on a park bench this morning."
