THE BLOODLINE WE BURIED BENEATH THE MARBLE FLOOR: A CHICAGO SYNDICATE LEGACY

The shockwave rattled the heavy leaded windows of the library, raining microscopic dust from the antique ceiling molding.

The steady beep of Salvatore’s cardiac monitor flatlined into a shrill, warning pitch before catching the rhythm again.

“Costa,” Mateo said without a shred of hesitation.

His voice was terrifyingly calm, devoid of the panic that sent my stomach plummeting through the floorboards.

In a fraction of a second, his charcoal jacket was unbuttoned.

From beneath his arm, he drew a custom black semi-automatic pistol, checking the chamber with a single flick of his thumb.

“Mateo!” Salvatore barked from the bed, struggling to push himself upright despite the IV line pulling taut against his arm.

“Do not let them take the girl!”

“Stay in the bed, Papa,” Mateo commanded, his tone leaving no room for defiance.

He stepped across the room, grabbed my arm above the elbow, and hauled me out of the leather armchair in one smooth motion.

His grip was iron, but he positioned his broad shoulders between me and the large balcony windows.

Downstairs, the cacophony of war exploded through the grand foyer.

The sharp, rhythmic cracks of heavy-caliber rifles tore through the silence, followed by the shattering of priceless porcelain and the shouts of dying men in Italian.

The smell of burned gunpowder and cordite drifted up the curved staircase, sharp and sulfuric.

“They didn't just come to confirm if Salvatore was dead,” Mateo muttered, his eyes darting across the hallway outside.

“They came to wipe the line clean before dawn.”

“My apartment—” I gasped, the cold realization hitting me like an icy bucket of water.

“They know where I work, Mateo! If they know I was at Bellori, they have my address!”

“Your apartment is empty, Tessa,” Mateo said, dragging me toward a narrow service corridor hidden behind a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf.

“No, it isn't!” I screamed over the roar of a grenade detonating in the courtyard below.

“Chiara’s cedar chest is there!”

“Everything she brought from Sicily—the papers, the letters, the wooden box with the carved proverb—it’s under my bed in Pilsen!”

Mateo froze for half a heartbeat.

His gunmetal eyes bored into mine in the dim light of the hidden corridor.

“The box is intact?” he demanded, his fingers tightening on my bicep.

“Yes! She made me swear on a crucifix never to open the false bottom unless a man with a serpent cane came looking for her!”

Mateo cursed under his breath, a sharp string of Sicilian profanities that made his jaw twitch.

“The foundation documents,” he whispered to himself.

“The original deeds to the Palermo shipping trusts.”

A heavy crash echoed from the main landing of the staircase.

The heavy mahogany double doors of the library splintered inward under a barrage of shotgun blasts.

Splinters the size of hunting knives flew across the room, burying themselves in the velvet curtains and the leather chairs.

Two men dressed in tactical black vests burst through the ruined doorway, their submachine guns sweeping the room.

Mateo didn't flinch.

He leaned around the corner of the hidden doorway, his pistol firing three rapid, deafening shots.

The first intruder dropped instantly, his weapon clattering across the ruined parquet floor.

The second man scrambled for cover behind the heavy mahogany desk, spraying automatic fire down the corridor.

The bullets chewed through the plaster above our heads, showering my hair in white chalk and drywall dust.

I dropped to my knees, covering my ears as the ringing in my eardrums turned agonizing.

Mateo fired twice more through the drywall, predicting the enemy’s trajectory with chilling precision.

A muffled groan answered his shots, followed by the heavy thud of a body collapsing against the wainscoting.

“Gianni!” Mateo yelled into the hallway.

The scarred bodyguard appeared at the top of the rear service stairs, his face smeared with soot and blood running down his left ear.

“The rear perimeter is breached, boss!” Gianni shouted, reloading his weapon with frantic speed.

“Costa brought at least twenty men from the docks.”

“The front gate guards are dead.”

“Take Salvatore through the subterranean tunnel to the boathouse,” Mateo ordered, his voice cutting through the smoke.

“Get the launch into the lake and take him to the compound in Kenosha.”

“What about you, Don Mateo?” Gianni asked, his eyes darting toward me.

“I am taking the girl to Pilsen,” Mateo said coldly.

“Mateo, that's suicide!” I shouted, grabbing the sleeve of his tailored shirt.

“Costa’s men are all over the city! If they know about the chest, they’re already waiting for me!”

Mateo looked down at me, his face illuminated by the flickering orange light of the courtyard fires burning below.

There was no fear in his eyes.

Only a cold, calculating fury that seemed older than the city of Chicago itself.

“They do not know what is inside that chest, Tessa,” he said, pulling a spare magazine from his pocket and sliding it into his weapon with a sharp mechanical click.

“They only know you are a loose thread.”

“If they get those documents, they take the entire northern territory without firing another shot.”

“And if they kill you, my father’s sister dies a second time without justice.”

He grabbed my hand, his fingers locking securely around mine.

“Run.”

We sprinted down the narrow service stairs, leaving behind the smoke, the gunfire, and the dying echoes of the mansion’s grandeur.

We burst out into the freezing downpour of the rear motor court, where a reinforced black sedan sat idling behind the reinforced stone garage.

Mateo shoved me into the passenger seat, threw himself behind the wheel, and slammed the accelerator to the floorboards.

The tires screamed against the wet asphalt, spitting gravel as the car tore through the rear service gate and plunged into the rainy darkness of the Chicago night.

Behind us, Huron Manor burned against the black sky, its flames reflecting off the turbulent waters of Lake Michigan.