Page 72 of The Mafia King's Lost Son
Scarlett carries him back to his room, and I hear her murmuring soft reassurances. When she comes back, her face is composed but I can see the fear underneath.
“How bad was it?”
“Bad enough. Six professionals, all military trained. This wasn’t a random attack.”
“Which family sent them?”
“I don’t know yet. But I’ll find out.”
She wraps her arms around herself. “This is because of me. Because you’re protecting me.”
“This is because someone wants the ledger and thinks we have it. Big difference.”
“Is there? Because from the look of things, my being here just painted a target on your home. On our son.”
“Our son is safer here than he would be anywhere else.”
“Is he? Because he just watched armed men attack his home. Because he had to hide in a locked room while people tried to kill us. That’s not safe, Dante. That’s traumatic.”
She’s right and I hate it. I hate that Luca had to experience that. Hate that this is the world he was born into. But the alternative is worse.
“If you weren’t here, if you were out there somewhere alone with him, they’d have found you already. And you’d both be dead. At least here, you have protection.”
“For how long? How many more attacks before someone gets through?”
“They won’t get through.”
“You can’t promise that.”
“Watch me.”
We stare at each other for a long moment, and I can see the wheels turning in her head. She’s thinking about leaving. About taking Luca and running again.
Not happening.
“Don’t,” I say quietly. “Don’t even think about it.”
“You don’t know what I’m thinking.”
“I know exactly what you’re thinking. And the answer is no. You’re not leaving. You’re not taking Luca and running. You’re staying here where I can protect you.”
“Maybe that’s not your choice to make.”
“It is absolutely my choice. You’re mine. He’s mine. And I don’t let go of what’s mine.”
Her eyes flash with anger. “We’re not possessions, Dante.”
“I never said you were. But you’re under my protection, and that means you stay where I can keep you safe.”
An hour later, I’m in the conference room with my inner circle. Viktor, Marco, and three of my senior lieutenants. The bodies of the attackers have been removed and the estate is being swept for additional threats.
“Preliminary identification on the attackers,” Marco says, sliding photos across the table. “Former Russian military. Spetsnaz training. Someone paid huge money for this hit because their services are not cheap.”
I study the photos. It’s mostly dead faces, professional equipment, coordinated assault. This was planned carefully and executed well. Almost well enough.
“The Volkov family,” Viktor says. “Has to be. They’re the only ones with connections to Russian military contractors.”
“Or someone wants us to think it’s the Volkovs.” I lean back in my chair. “Could be misdirection.”
