Chapter 5 - The Vanguard’s UltimatumThe safehouse was a fortress disguised as an abandoned shipping warehouse down by the industrial docks. Inside, it was a high-tech command center filled with multiple monitors displaying satellite feeds, security cameras, and tactical maps of the city.
Dante led me to a heavily guarded upper-level room where a nurse rushed forward to take little Lukas. The baby cried out, reaching for me again, but Dante gently touched his son's head. "Sleep, little wolf. She isn't going anywhere."
I stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, wrapping my arms around myself to stop the shivering. "I want to go home, Dante. Whatever game you and your mob friends are playing, I'm not part of it."
"It's no game, Mara," a voice crackled from the main console.
One of the technicians spun a monitor around. A live video feed showed the interior of Ristorante Bellagio—now swarming with armed men wearing tactical gear bearing a silver serpent insignia.
"The Vanguard," Dante muttered, his jaw clenching so hard a muscle twitched in his cheek. "They tracked the boy's biometric tracker to the restaurant. They know you're alive."
"Who are they?" I asked, my voice cracking.
"The faction that destroyed my family two years ago," Dante said, stepping up behind me. In the glass reflection, I saw the towering, imposing silhouette of the mafia boss, but for the first time, the fierce predator looked remarkably vulnerable. "They believe that as long as Elena's bloodline lives—through you, and through Lukas—the Moretti empire can never be truly conquered. They want the bloodline completely wiped out."
Before I could process the sheer scale of the danger, my cell phone—which I had clutched in my pocket all evening—suddenly buzzed.
It wasn't a text. It was a video call from an unknown, encrypted number.
With shaking hands, I tapped accept.
The screen flickered, revealing a dimly lit room. Tied to a chair in the center was a sweet, familiar elderly woman with silver hair and kind eyes—Mrs. Gable, the sweet retired schoolteacher who lived in the apartment next to mine and always baked me cinnamon rolls when I couldn't make rent.
A scarred hand grabbed Mrs. Gable by the hair, yanking her head back, and a cold, distorted voice spoke directly into the microphone:
May you like
"Hello, little bird. Tell the Moretti boss that if he wants his favorite neighbor—and his precious new sister—to see tomorrow's sunrise, he needs to bring the boy and the girl to Pier 4 by midnight. Come alone, or the old woman's blood is on your hands."
The screen went black.
