Chapter 7 - Bloodlines in the Blizzard
The air inside the library plummeted to sub-zero temperatures with that single sentence.
Saraphina sprang to her feet, knocking the empty crystal tumbler onto the rug as a wave of pure panic crashed over her.
"Lucas doesn't know anything about the syndicate," she cried, grabbing Alessio's lapels with desperate, trembling fists.
"He's an architectural student who plays cello on weekends; he won't survive five minutes in their hands."
Alessio gripped her wrists with firm, unyielding strength, grounding her before the hysteria could shatter her composure.
"Look at me, Saraphina," he commanded, his deep baritone cutting through the ringing in her ears.
"Panic gets people killed in this world; focus is the only thing that keeps them breathing."
"Then let me go with your men to find him," she pleaded, refusing to break eye contact with the syndicate heir.
"Lucas ran because he found an old journal our father left in our summer cabin near the Ohio River basin."
"He thinks he can negotiate with the Morettis using dad’s blueprints, but he has no idea they will shoot him on sight."
Alessio held her gaze for several long heartbeats, weighing the tactical nightmare of bringing a civilian into an active warzone against her undeniable knowledge of the cabin's terrain.
"If you step foot into that storm with me, Saraphina, you do not question an order," he said, his voice hard as iron.
"You wear body armor, you stay behind my left shoulder, and if blood touches your boots, you keep running forward."
"I don't care about the blood," she answered fiercely, her fear crystallizing into cold, maternal resolve.
"I only care about bringing my brother back alive."
Within fifteen minutes, the quiet mansion transformed into an armed command center.
Alessio discarded his dress shirt for a dark tactical turtleneck, strapping a Kevlar vest over his broad chest.
He handed Saraphina a reinforced windbreaker lined with lightweight ceramic plates and heavy insulated field boots.
In the underground garage, three black four-wheel-drive SUVs sat idling, their exhausts billowing thick clouds of white vapor into the freezing air.
Alessio’s senior lieutenant, a scarred veteran named Dante with silver hair and hollow eyes, handed his boss a modified submachine gun.
Dante looked at Saraphina with undisguised contempt, shaking his head at the breach of operational protocol.
"Bringing a Blake girl on an extraction run during a Level Three blizzard is suicide, Alessio," Dante warned bluntly.
"Your father would have put a bullet through anyone who compromised our perimeter like this."
"My father is buried beneath six feet of frozen limestone, Dante," Alessio replied coldly, racking the bolt of his weapon with a sharp snap.
"And while I draw breath, I decide who rides in my convoy."
Dante clamped his mouth shut, though a venomous flicker in his pale eyes did not escape Saraphina's watchful gaze.
The convoy roared out of the subterranean gate, tires churning through fresh snowdrifts as they hurtled toward the icy banks of the Ohio River.
Inside the lead vehicle, Saraphina watched the Louisville skyline disappear behind sheets of blinding, merciless white.
Beside her, Alessio checked the tactical display on his dashboard, his presence a solid, immovable anchor against the encroaching dark.
May you like
She reached out tentatively, her fingers brushing the rough canvas of his combat vest.
Alessio did not pull away; instead, his gloved hand closed tightly over hers, anchoring her soul in the heart of the howling storm.
