Chapter 2 - THE CHAIN OF COMMAND
They threw us into the wine cellar beneath the eastern wing of Hawthorne Manor.
The room was freezing, smelling of ancient oak, cold damp stone, and centuries of dust. Heavy iron bars locked the door from the outside. Two armed guards stood silently under the dim yellow bulb in the corridor.
Ella sat on an empty wooden crate, her small legs dangling, her arms wrapped tightly around her lamb backpack.
"Mommy," she whispered, her gray-blue eyes wide in the gloom. "Is the man going to die?"
"No, baby," I said, kneeling before her and rubbing her icy arms to keep her warm. "You saved him. Your EpiPen gave him time for his body to fight off the sickness."
"I don't have another one," she whimpered, her lower lip trembling. "If I eat a peanut... I won't have my shot."
My heart broke into a thousand pieces. I pulled her into my arms and held her tightly.
An epinephrine auto-injector cost over three hundred dollars without insurance—nearly half my weekly wage as an underpaid estate housekeeper. I had carried that single injector in her little backpack like a sacred shield. She had willingly given up her own safety net to save a stranger dying on the floor.
Hours dragged by like thick molasses.
Around 3:00 AM, heavy footsteps echoed down the stone corridor.
The guards instantly stood at rigid attention. "Boss."
The heavy iron latch clicked. The oak door creaked open.
Dante Russo stepped into the cellar.
He was leaning heavily on a carved silver cane. His face was pale, his dark hair disheveled, and his white linen shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, revealing a thick dark bruise over his chest where his throat had suffered the trauma of respiratory collapse. But his eyes—dark, razor-sharp, and terrifyingly clear—were alive with a dangerous, burning intelligence.
Behind him stood Silas Veron, looking visibly uncomfortable for the first time all night.
Dante didn't look at the guards. He didn't look at Silas. He walked straight into the cold room, his cane thumping against the damp stone floor, until he stopped right in front of Ella and me.
He slowly lowered his towering six-foot-three frame, dropping onto one knee despite his obvious physical weakness.
"What is your name, little one?" Dante asked. His voice was raw, raspy, as if his vocal cords had been scorched by fire.
Ella shrank back against my shoulder, but she peeked out. "Ella."
Dante looked at her soft blonde hair, her gray-blue eyes, and the spent auto-injector still resting in the open pocket of her little lamb backpack.
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Then, the most feared syndicate leader on the Eastern seaboard did something that made Silas gasp in the corridor.
Dante Russo lowered his head, pressed his forehead against my five-year-old daughter’s small knee, and broke down in tears.
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