Chapter 4 - The Betrayal of Blood
Salvatore stared at the woman before him. The revelation tore through his mind like a physical blow. The daughter of the man his father had destroyed was the only person keeping him alive.
Slowly, he lowered his gun. “If you wanted revenge, Serena... why did you block the nerve pain? Why did you fix my spine?”
“Because revenge is a disease,” she said softly, wiping her eyes. “I see what it did to your uncle Anthony. It turned him into a monster who kills his own blood. I didn't want to become that.”
Before Salvatore could speak, the penthouse windows suddenly shattered inward.
A barrage of heavy caliber bullets ripped through the room, tearing the drywall to shreds. Marco fell instantly, a bullet through his neck.
“Ambush!” a guard screamed before he was cut down by a hail of gunfire from the rooftop across the street.
“Serena! Down!” Salvatore roared. He threw his upper body forward, grabbing her by the waist and pulling her down to the floor just as a rocket-propelled grenade (RPG) slammed into the kitchen area, blowing the walls apart in a deafening eruption of fire and concrete dust.
The penthouse was burning. The ceiling was collapsing. Through the smoke, heavy footsteps approached from the private elevator.
Anthony Ritchie stepped out, wearing a pristine wool coat, surrounded by ten heavily armed mercenaries. He looked down at his paralyzed nephew with a smirk of pure triumph.
“Look at you, Salvatore,” Anthony mocked, kicking a piece of broken marble toward Salvatore’s face. “The great boss of Chicago, crawling in the dirt like a worm. Your father would be ashamed.”
Salvatore glared up at his uncle, his body covered in ash, his legs completely useless beneath him. “You broke the code, Anthony. You don't bring outsiders into family business.”
“The code died when you let a fat, worthless nurse dictate how you run this empire,” Anthony spat, pointing his gun directly at Serena, who was pinned beneath a piece of fallen drywall, her forehead bleeding. “She’s the one who kept you alive. Let’s see how long you last when I paint the floor with her brains.”
“No!” Salvatore shouted, trying to lift himself, but his paralyzed legs anchored him to the floor. “Leave her out of this, Anthony! It’s between us!”
“It’s over, Salvatore,” Anthony smiled, cocking the hammer of his revolver. “Goodbye, nephew.”
Anthony aimed at Serena’s head.
In that split second, Serena didn't scream. She looked at Salvatore, her eyes conveying a final, silent message: Forgive them.
A deep, violent roar tore from Salvatore’s throat—a sound that wasn't human. The raw, emotional shock of seeing the woman he loved about to be executed triggered a massive, unprecedented surge of adrenaline through his damaged nervous system. The inflammation around the seventh piece of metal in his spine suddenly gave way under the immense pressure of his willpower.
A miracle born of pure rage happened.
Salvatore’s right leg twitched.
Then, his left foot slammed against the floor.
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Before Anthony could pull the trigger, Salvatore rose to his feet. He didn't stand gracefully; he stood like an ancient god rising from the earth, heavy, terrifying, and unstoppable.
With a brutal, sweeping motion, Salvatore lunged forward, his massive hands wrapping around Anthony’s throat before the old man could even process that his nephew was standing.
