Chapter 5 - The Shield and the Fire
Clara raised her shaking hands, her back pressed against the cold hallway wall. The black barrel of Salvatore’s gun stared at her like a hollow, dead eye.
“I… I was just getting tea,” she stammered, her voice barely a whisper.
Before Salvatore could pull the hammer back, Rico materialized out of the library like a shadow. In one fluid, terrifying movement, Rico grabbed his uncle’s wrist, twisted it violently downward until the bone popped, and stripped the revolver from Sal's grip.
Sal groaned in pain, stumbling back. “Rico! What the hell—!”
“I told you,” Rico whispered, stepping between Salvatore and Clara. His tall frame completely shielded her from the underboss. He checked the cylinder of Sal’s gun, clicked it shut, and shoved it deep into his own jacket pocket. “If you ever point a weapon at anyone in this house again, Sal, brother of my father or not, I will execute you where you stand.”
Sal clutched his broken wrist, his face red with fury and pain. He glared at Clara with pure, unadulterated hatred. “She was spying on us!”
“She was walking through my house,” Rico growled. “Get out. Go back to Brooklyn. Do not return until I call you.”
Salvatore spat on the polished floor, cast one final murderous glance at Clara, and turned, limping down the grand hallway toward the exit doors.
The silence that followed was suffocating.
Clara was shaking so violently her knees nearly gave out. Her breath came in quick, shallow gasps as the terror of the moment finally washed over her.
Rico turned around slowly. The cold, lethal killer who had just broken his uncle's wrist vanished, replaced by a man whose eyes were filled with deep concern.
“Clara,” he said gently, reaching out to steady her shoulders.
When his warm, large hands touched her arms, Clara flinched slightly.
Rico instantly pulled his hands back, dropping them to his sides. A look of profound, silent pain flashed across his handsome face. He hated that she was afraid of him.
“I’m sorry,” Rico said quietly. “You should not have seen that. You should not be exposed to the violence of my world.”
“He… he had a gun,” Clara gasped, pulling her wool sweater tightly around herself. “Rico… who are these people? What kind of life is this for Leo?”
Rico walked over to the tall arched window, looking out into the pouring rain. “It’s the only life I have to give him, Clara. I was born into this family. My father was the capo before me. I tried to leave once—when Elena was pregnant. I tried to legitimize our businesses, to sell off the docks.”
He paused, his voice cracking slightly.
“The Luciano family saw my attempt to go clean as a sign of vulnerability. They sent two hitmen to my house. They missed me… and hit Elena instead. I learned a bitter lesson that night, Clara. In my world, if you aren't the monster, you become the prey.”
Clara looked at his broad, lonely shoulders framed against the stormy glass. She saw the heavy burden he carried—a man forced to play the devil just to keep his innocent son alive.
She walked forward softly, stopping just behind him.
“You’re not a monster, Rico,” she whispered gently. “Monsters don't look at their sons the way you look at Leo.”
Rico turned his head slowly, looking down at her. In the dim light of the hallway, their faces were only inches apart. Clara could smell the dark cedar of his cologne, feel the heat radiating from his body.
May you like
Rico reached out, his long, calloused fingers gently tucking a loose lock of hair behind her ear. His touch was impossibly soft for a man whose hands carried so much power.
“You don't know me yet, Clara,” he murmured, his blue eyes searching her hazel ones. “But I swear on my son’s life… no one will ever hurt you while you are under my roof.”
