Isabella POV

In the fraction of a second after my warning, the terror in Gianna’s eyes vanished, replaced by a triumphant, vicious smirk. She had exactly what she wanted.

She threw her head back and unleashed a theatrical, piercing shriek. "Assault! She's attacking me!"

The remaining paparazzi, hungry for blood, surged forward. A fresh storm of white flashes erupted around us. It was a trap. Gianna’s two massive bodyguards immediately lunged toward us, their hands reaching out to grab me.

Before they could close the distance, Marco stepped directly in front of me. He bared his teeth, a low, feral growl vibrating in his small chest like a cornered wolf cub.

I couldn't afford a fight here. I shoved Gianna hard by her twisted wrist, using her backward stumble to create a vital gap. I scooped up a terrified Chiara with one arm, grabbed my sons' wrists with my free hand, and hissed, "Run!"

We bolted like rabbits fleeing hounds, sprinting toward the nearest exit sign. Behind us, Gianna’s shrill voice cut through the chaos. "Get them! Don't let that bitch get away! I want her arrested!"

We tore out of the main hall and ducked into a secluded service corridor near the restrooms. The air here was cold, smelling of cheap bleach and dust. The buzzing fluorescent lights overhead flickered, casting sickly yellow shadows on the tiled walls.

"Alex, watch the perimeter," I ordered, my chest heaving. I pushed the kids into a blind alcove leading to the family restroom.

I stumbled to the sink, turning on the cold tap and splashing water onto my face. My hands were shaking violently. The flashing lights, the shouting, the feeling of being hunted—it was tearing at the edges of my PTSD, threatening to pull me back into the dark cell I had escaped six years ago.

"Look at that. Your mother abandoned you."

The cruel, mocking voice echoed off the tiles. I spun around, water dripping from my chin.

Gianna stood at the entrance of the alcove, her two bodyguards blocking our only exit. Her eyes swept over my children with utter disdain before landing on the worn teddy bear clutched tightly against Chiara’s chest.

"That's an ugly little thing, isn't it?" Gianna sneered.

Before I could move, Gianna stepped forward. With a vicious swipe of her hand, she knocked the bear out of Chiara's grasp. It hit the floor, and Gianna immediately brought her six-inch stiletto down on its head. She ground her heel into the fabric, twisting her ankle with sadistic pleasure until the seams ripped and the white stuffing burst out onto the dirty tiles.

Chiara let out a soul-tearing scream, her small hands covering her face.

The insult was absolute. It wasn't just an attack on a child; it was a declaration of war.

And Marco Moretti answered it.

He didn't yell. He didn't cry. He moved with a terrifying, calculated precision that belonged entirely to the bloodline I had tried so hard to suppress.

Marco slipped a solid glass marble from his pocket. Pinching it between his thumb and forefinger, he flicked it with astonishing force and flawless aim.

*Crack.*

The marble struck Gianna’s kneecap dead center. She let out an unearthly wail, her leg buckling instantly as she collapsed onto the floor, clutching her shattered knee.

"Grab the little bastard!" one of the guards roared, lunging forward.

Marco dropped into a slide, gliding right beneath the guard's outstretched hands. From his other pocket, he ripped open a small paper packet—a homemade mixture of stolen restaurant black pepper and crushed chili flakes—and threw it violently upward into the faces of the two towering men.

The guards inhaled the caustic powder. They instantly staggered backward, violently coughing and clawing at their streaming, burning eyes, completely incapacitated.

The alcove fell into a heavy, stunned silence, broken only by Gianna’s whimpers and the guards' choking.

Marco calmly walked over to the ruined teddy bear. He picked it up, dusted it off, and gently pressed it back into Chiara’s trembling arms. Then, he turned to Gianna. He looked down at the bleeding socialite with eyes that were entirely too old, too cold—eyes that were a perfect mirror of his father's.

"Apologize," Marco commanded, his voice devoid of any childish innocence.

"You little freak! I'll kill you!" Gianna spat, her face twisted in agony and hatred.

Before Marco could react, the atmosphere in the corridor shifted.

A heavy, rhythmic tread echoed from the far end of the hallway, the sound of leather shoes striking the tiles with absolute, unquestionable authority. A second later, the muffled but unmistakable *THUMP* of a heavy, armored car door slamming shut reverberated from the street outside.

Isabella POV

The heavy, rhythmic tread stopped at the entrance of our alcove. A man stepped into the flickering fluorescent light. He wore a tailored charcoal suit, his face a mask of absolute, chilling indifference.

Casimiro Gallo. Damien's Underboss. His shadow.

Gianna, still clutching her shattered knee, let out a breathless sob of relief. "Cass! Thank God. Grab them! That little psycho broke my leg with a marble!"

Casimiro didn't even blink in her direction. He stepped right over one of the groaning bodyguards, his cold, calculating gaze sweeping over my children like a searchlight. He was assessing them. Cataloging them. He wasn't here for Gianna's petty drama; he was here to collect his Don's property.

I shoved Marco and Alex behind me, shielding them with my body as I held Chiara tight. I was a cornered wolf, baring my teeth at the executioner.

Casimiro stopped three feet away. He pressed a finger to the earpiece in his right ear, listening for a split second before his dark eyes locked onto mine.

"Mrs. Moretti," Casimiro said, his voice devoid of any inflection. "The Don wishes to speak with you."

That name. That title. It felt like a noose tightening around my throat.

My gaze darted past his broad shoulders, looking through the glass doors at the end of the corridor. There it was, idling at the curb. A black Rolls Royce Phantom. It sat there like a dormant beast, its heavily tinted windows impenetrable.

Six years of meticulously buried trauma clawed its way up my throat. The dark cell. The suffocating control. The violence. He was in there. The head of the family that had destroyed my life.

A violent tremor wracked my body. I stared at that blacked-out window, knowing with absolute certainty that Damien was watching me, listening through Casimiro's open comms.

"Monster," I breathed. The word slipped from my trembling lips, laced with a venom and terror so profound it scraped my throat raw.

Casimiro's jaw tightened slightly. He reached out, his massive hand aiming for my arm. "You need to come with me now."

He never saw Alessandro move.

My five-year-old son darted out from behind my legs. He didn't yell. He just pulled a small, thick glass vial from his jacket pocket and hurled it with all his might straight through the open automatic doors.

The vial shattered against the asphalt, right beneath the Phantom's front left tire.

A thick cloud of acrid white smoke erupted instantly. The violent hiss of a highly corrosive chemical eating through military-grade rubber echoed over the street noise. In less than two seconds, both front tires blew out with a deafening BANG.

The massive, armored chassis of the Rolls Royce slammed violently onto its metal rims, jarring the entire vehicle. The impact triggered the car's security system, sending a piercing, continuous alarm blaring into the evening air.

Total chaos erupted. Pedestrians screamed, scattering in panic.

Casimiro whipped his head around, his stoic facade cracking in sheer disbelief as he stared at his Don's crippled fortress.

It was the only opening we were going to get.

I hoisted Chiara onto my hip, my fingers digging like talons into Marco and Alex's wrists.

"Go!" I shrieked.

We bolted. We didn't look back at Casimiro, nor at the ruined Phantom. We plunged headfirst into the panicked, surging crowd of the terminal, sprinting desperately toward the concrete labyrinth of the parking garage.

Damien POV

The armored chassis of the Rolls Royce Phantom groaned as it settled violently onto its metal rims. The piercing, continuous shriek of the car’s security alarm vibrated through the floorboards, but it was nothing compared to the deafening roar of my own blood.

I sat in the back seat of my crippled fortress, the vehicle tilted awkwardly to the left. The acrid stench of burning military-grade rubber seeped through the air vents.

I pressed two fingers to my earpiece, my jaw clenched so tight my teeth ached. *"Status,"* I barked over the encrypted comms, my voice a lethal, low frequency that cut through the blaring alarm.

Casimiro’s voice crackled back, laced with a heavy, unnatural breathlessness. *"Don, they're heading for the parking garage."* In the background, I heard the violent crash of metal colliding with concrete. *"The boy—Marco—he just created a barricade with the luggage carts. He shoved a stack of them down the ramp. He's blocking my men."*

My knuckles turned white as I gripped the leather armrest. A five-year-old. A five-year-old boy had just crippled my three-ton vehicle and outmaneuvered a squad of my elite *Soldiers*.

"Get me out of this metal coffin," I growled.

Minutes later, my men had secured the perimeter. I stepped out of the ruined Phantom and immediately slid into the back of the backup black SUV. The heavy doors slammed shut, instantly severing the chaotic noise of the terminal. The silence inside was absolute, cold, and expectant.

Casimiro slid into the passenger seat. His tailored suit was dusted with concrete powder, his stoic face tight with the humiliation of failure.

"Report," I commanded, my eyes fixed on the back of his head.

"They hijacked a yellow cab, Don," Casimiro said, his tone strictly professional, though I could hear the underlying tension. "We have the plate, but they were gone before we could lock down the exits. They vanished into the evening traffic."

*Vanished.*

The word was a poisoned dagger scraping against my pride. No one vanished from Damien Moretti. Not in my city.

I leaned back into the shadows of the leather seat. My mind was a dark, churning storm. Vittorio, my grandfather, had handed me a file six years ago painting Isabella Rossi as a greedy, calculating *Rat* who sold our secrets and abandoned my heir for a payout.

But rats didn't look at you like that.

Through the live feed, and through Casimiro's open comms, I had heard her voice. *Monster.* The word hadn't been spat with defiance or calculated malice. It had been breathed out with a raw, suffocating terror. She had looked at my blacked-out window not like a thief caught in a lie, but like a prey staring into the jaws of hell.

"The tires," I said, my voice dangerously quiet. "How?"

"A corrosive agent," Casimiro replied, turning slightly to face me. "Thrown by the other boy, Alessandro. The one with the glasses. It ate through the reinforced rubber in seconds."

A tactical barricade. A chemical weapon. These weren't the actions of pampered children raised on a secret payout. They were trained. They were survivors.

I leaned forward, the leather creaking under my weight. "The boy, Marco. His eyes. Tell me again."

Casimiro met my gaze in the rearview mirror. He didn't hesitate. "They are yours, Don. The exact same storm-gray. The jawline, the temper... he is a Moretti."

A violent, possessive thrill ignited in my chest, burning away the last remnants of my patience. My blood. My sons. My daughter. She had stolen them from me, hidden them in the dark, and turned them into little soldiers.

*"Cazzo,"* (Fuck) I hissed, the Italian curse slipping out like a promise of violence.

I looked at Casimiro, stripping away any illusion of a measured response. This was no longer a simple retrieval. This was a *Vendetta*.

"Gianna Santoro," I ordered, my voice devoid of any mercy. "Handle her. I never want to see or hear from her again. Strip her family of the new dock contracts."

"Understood," Casimiro nodded.

"And activate every asset we have in the NYPD," I continued, the dark authority of the *Don's Command* filling the confined space. "I want access to every traffic camera from here to Queens. Run facial recognition on all four of them. I don't care if you have to shut down the goddamn city, Cass. Find that cab. Find *her*."

I stared out the tinted window at the sprawling, neon-lit veins of New York.

"I want them before sunrise."