Chapter 4 - Blood and Bloodlines"Uncle..." The word felt foreign, clumsy, and entirely absurd while glass shards crunched under the boots of armed men moving toward our barricade.
"Save the family reunion for when we're breathing," Dante snapped, his eyes flashing with lethal intent. He pulled a heavy, custom-engraved pistol from a concealed holster beneath his suit jacket, checking the magazine with a practiced, lightning-fast click.
Outside the overturned mahogany table, heavy boots crunched across the shattered dining room floor. Heavy, calculated footsteps. Professional killers don't run; they stalk.
"Boss, they're breaching the side flank!" Mateo shouted, firing three rapid shots through the kitchen service door before ducking back as return fire splintered the doorframe into toothpicks. "We're boxed in! If we don't move in thirty seconds, this whole restaurant becomes our tomb!"
Dante didn't hesitate. He shifted his weight, his broad frame shielding both me and little Dante completely. He looked down at me, his expression softening just an infinitesimal fraction—enough to show the profound weight of a bloodline neither of us had asked for.
"Mara, listen to me very carefully," Dante commanded, his voice steady as stone. "You are a Moretti by blood. That means you don't break, and you don't run anymore. When I tell you to move, you take my son, you stay low behind Mateo, and you run straight through that kitchen exit into the alley. There's an armored town car waiting. Do you understand?"
"I can't—I don't know how to fight people like this!" I protested, my chest heaving, the baby clutching my shirt tighter as if sensing the mortal peril.
"You survived twenty-three years hiding from my father's enemies," Dante said grimly, a dark, dangerous pride flashing in his eyes. "Survival is in your DNA. Now... move!"
With a deafening roar, Dante stood straight up from behind the table, firing three precise, calculated shots into the dining room. A heavy thud echoed across the floor as one of the elite hitmen dropped instantly.
"Go! Go! Go!" Mateo screamed, grabbing my arm and yanking me upward.
I clutched little Dante against my ribs like a shield, my feet flying over shattered glass and spilled wine. We scrambled past the service bar—right beneath the photograph of my aunt Elena, whose painted eyes seemed to watch us with a tragic, knowing sadness—and burst through the swinging kitchen doors just as a grenade clattered onto the dining room floor behind us.
The explosion shook the foundations of Ristorante Bellagio, sending a shockwave of heat and flying debris through the kitchen. Mateo shoved me toward the back exit, throwing open the heavy metal door into the freezing alleyway.
The cold night air hit my lungs like ice water. Parked directly against the back exit was a sleek, matte-black armored sedan with its engine idling, the rear door already swinging open.
"Get in! Get in!" Mateo yelled, pushing me toward the back seat.
Just as I slid inside, securing the baby safely in my lap, a burst of gunfire from the alley roof ripped through the air. Mateo grunted sharply, stumbling backward against the side of the car, blood blooming across his shoulder.
"Mateo!" I cried out.
Before I could reach out to help him, another figure emerged from the smoke and fire of the burning restaurant. It was Dante, moving with terrifying speed, firing his weapon backward while seamlessly retreating into the alley. He leaped into the back seat beside me, slamming the armored door shut with a resounding thud.
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"Drive, Leo!" Dante roared to the faceless driver up front.
The sedan squealed tires, launching forward into the dark, rain-slicked labyrinth of the city's underworld, leaving the burning wreckage of my old life far behind in the rearview mirror.
