Chapter 5 - The Blood Sovereign
Three hours felt like three eternities inside the cold, steel vault.
Leo had finally fallen asleep again from pure physical exhaustion, resting his small head on a leather sofa inside the panic room. Clara sat on the floor near the reinforced door, holding a heavy steel fire extinguisher—the only weapon she could find—her hands shaking violently.
Suddenly, a sound echoed from the exterior frame.
KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK!
Clara froze, her heart leaping into her throat.
KNOCK... KNOCK.
Three heavy knocks. Two soft ones. The signal.
The pneumatic locks hissed, releasing the vacuum seal. The heavy steel door slowly slid open.
Standing on the threshold was Dante. His face was covered in soot and blood, his right arm wrapped in a tight tactical bandage. Behind him, the master bedroom was ruined—furniture shattered, bullet holes riddling the walls, the air heavy with the stench of copper and burnt powder.
"Miss Vance," Dante breathed, his voice rough as sandpaper. "It's over. The house is secure."
"Where is Rico?" Clara demanded, dropping the fire extinguisher and scrambling to her feet. "Where is he?"
Dante’s expression darkened. "He’s in the infirmary downstairs. The surgeon is taking out the shrapnel now. He lost a lot of blood."
Clara didn't wait. She picked up Leo, holding him tightly against her hip, and pushed past Dante, running down the ruined hallways toward the basement medical suite.
The mansion was a war zone. Bodyguards were clearing bodies covered in white sheets, medical technicians were rushing around with IV bags, and local tactical units loyal to the Moretti family secured every corner.
Clara burst into the private infirmary.
Rico was lying on a stainless-steel operating table, stripped to the waist. A chief surgeon and two nurses were bent over his left shoulder, using tweezers to pull jagged lead pellets out of his torn muscle. A blood bag hung from a metal pole, feeding fresh plasma into his right arm.
He wasn't under general anesthesia. He had refused it. He sat up, his teeth gritted around a leather strap, sweat pouring down his pale, sculpted torso, his chest heaving with every surge of pain.
When the heavy doors swung open, Rico’s head snapped toward the entrance.
His ice-blue eyes landed on Clara and Leo. The intense, lethal tension in his posture visibly broke. He spat the leather strap out of his mouth.
"I told you... to stay in the room," Rico rasped, his voice weak, dry, but unmistakably authoritative.
Clara walked straight up to the surgical table, completely ignoring the stunned surgeon holding a blood-stained scalpel.
"You are an idiot," Clara said, tears finally breaking past her lashes and spilling down her cheeks. "A complete, arrogant, suicidal idiot."
The surgeon gasped. "Miss, please, we are in the middle of a surgical procedure—"
"Shut up," Rico growled at the doctor, never breaking eye contact with Clara. He lifted his uninjured right arm, extending his blood-stained hand toward her.
Clara reached out, her soft fingers intertwining tightly with his rough, calloused ones. The contrast was stark—her smooth skin against his bruised, blood-flecked knuckles—yet their grip was absolute.
Leo reached out from Clara’s arms, his tiny hand patting Rico’s sweaty forehead. "Daddy... no boo-boo?"
A soft, vulnerable look crossed Rico’s face—a look that no capo or soldier in Brooklyn had ever been allowed to see. "No boo-boo, little boss. Daddy’s okay."
Rico pulled Clara closer, using his grip to draw her head down until his lips were inches from her ear.
"Marcone is dead," Rico whispered, his dark voice sending chills down her spine. "I killed him in the driveway twenty minutes ago. His family is finished. You and Leo are safe now."
Clara looked into his eyes, seeing the dark, terrifying monster that the world feared, but beneath it, seeing the fierce protector who had taken a shotgun blast to keep her breathing.
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"You didn't have to take that shot for me, Rico," Clara whispered, her thumb stroking his knuckles.
"Yes, I did," Rico said, his grip tightening around her hand until it almost hurt. "You brought my son back from the dead, Clara. You gave me back my home. I would burn all of New York to the ground before I let anyone hurt you."
