Chapter 2 - THE BLOOD-RED PREFERENCE
Forty-eight hours after leaving Mercy General Hospital under armed federal escort, I moved into a fortress of my own.
It wasn't a sleek glass penthouse in Tribeca, nor was it the sprawling estate in the Hamptons where Lucian kept his armada of yachts. It was a historic, heavily reinforced brownstone in Greenwich Village—a property my late grandfather had quietly bought decades ago, completely wiped from public property records.
Elena had spent the last two days transforming the lower floors into a command center. Server racks hummed in the basement, security cameras monitored every square inch of the perimeter, and four former British Special Air Service operatives—hired through a high-end private security firm funded by my secret inheritance—patrolled the iron gates outside.
I sat in the dimly lit nursery, rocking Nico in a mahogany chair while watching the rain beat against the bulletproof glass windows. The news on the wall-mounted television was muted, but the bold red banner across the bottom of the screen said it all:
MORETTI EMPIRE UNDER FEDERAL INVESTIGATION: LUCIAN MORETTI FACES RICO CHARGES.
For seven years, I had played the silent, dutiful mafia wife. I was the polished ornament at black-tie galas, the graceful hostess who smiled while men traded human lives over crystal glasses of scotch. Lucian thought I was blind to his world. He thought that because I painted landscapes in my studio and organized charity balls, my head was in the clouds.
He forgot that before I was a Moretti, I was a Vance. My father had been an intelligence analyst for the Department of Justice. I didn't just learn how to navigate high society; I learned how to build dossiers.
A soft knock at the door broke my concentration. Elena stepped inside, holding two hot mugs of tea and a encrypted tablet.
“He tried to freeze your credit accounts an hour ago,” Elena said, handing me a mug. “All seven of them.”
“And?”
“And he found out you transferred forty million dollars into an untraceable trust fund in the Cayman Islands six weeks ago,” she smiled grimly. “His Chief Financial Officer nearly had a heart attack. Lucian’s liquid cash flow is effectively choked.”
I took a slow sip of the tea, feeling the warmth spread through my tired chest. “Lucian relies on panic. He expects me to hide in a corner, weep over his mistress, and beg for an allowance. When you take away a predator’s food source, he gets sloppy.”
“Speaking of sloppy,” Elena said, her tone darkening as she tapped the screen of the tablet and handed it to me. “Bianca Romano landed at JFK two hours ago. She didn't even bother taking a private airfield. She brought three bodyguards and checked straight into the St. Regis.”
I looked at the high-definition surveillance photo on the screen. Bianca Romano was breathtaking in a ruthless, sharp-edged way. She wore a tailored crimson coat, dark sunglasses, and a smirk that screamed immunity.
“She thinks she’s winning,” I said softly, zooming in on the ring on Bianca’s middle finger—a sapphire that used to belong to the Moretti family vault. “She thinks Lucian brought her to New York to replace me.”
“Did he?” Elena asked cautiously.
“Lucian doesn't replace tools, Elena. He discards them when they lose their utility,” I replied, setting the tablet down. “Bianca isn't his lover. She’s his leverage. He’s using her father’s Sicilian fleet to smuggle assets out of the country before the federal government freezes his accounts.”
Suddenly, the red emergency light above the nursery door began to flash silently.
My heart slammed against my ribs. I stood up instantly, cradling Nico tight against my chest as the security monitor on the wall snapped into life.
Outside the brownstone’s iron gates, a lone black Maybach had pulled up to the curb. Rain poured over the vehicle’s polished hood. The rear passenger door opened, and a tall figure stepped out into the storm.
It wasn't Lucian.
It was Marco Vitale—Lucian’s right-hand man, his Underboss, and the man who had called Lucian in Sicily to announce the birth of his son.
Marco walked up to the front gate with his hands raised high in the air, open and empty, completely unbothered by the red laser sights from my security team trained directly on his chest.
“Serena!” Marco’s voice echoed through the gate’s intercom speaker, crisp and steady despite the thunder roaring overhead. “I came alone! No guns, no backup! I am not here on Lucian’s orders!”
Elena pulled a Glock 19 from her waistband, her knuckles white. “I’ll tell the guards to open fire.”
“No,” I commanded, my eyes glued to the monitor. “Marco is the brain of the Moretti organization. If he came here alone without Lucian’s permission, it means the foundation is already crumbling.”
I walked down the grand spiral staircase, carrying Nico in my arm, flanked by two armed guards. I stood behind the reinforced steel inner door and activated the intercom.
“You have sixty seconds to give me a reason not to let my team put a bullet through your knee, Marco,” I said coldly.
Through the camera feed, Marco lowered his hands slightly and looked straight into the lens. His expression wasn't angry; it was haunted.
“Lucian has lost his mind, Serena,” Marco said, his voice dropping an octave. “He didn't just meet Bianca in Sicily to discuss logistics. He made a deal with her father, Don Carmine Romano. Lucian agreed to sell forty percent of the New York docks to the Sicilian Syndicate in exchange for their mercenary army.”
I froze. The New York docks were the crown jewel of the Moretti legacy. Losing forty percent meant surrendering total control of the East Coast.
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“Why would he make a deal that foolish?” I asked.
“Because the deal comes with a condition,” Marco replied, pressing his face closer to the camera. “Don Carmine gave him the troops under one absolute term: Lucian must present an heir to seal the alliance between the families. If you keep Nico away from him, Lucian intends to take the baby by force—and make Bianca Romano his legal mother.”
