Chapter 7 - Blood on the Marble
I scrambled through the broken doorway into the nursery.
Emma was screaming hysterically from her crib, her tiny fists pounding the wooden slats.
In the center of the room, two giants fought with primal, savage ferocity. Marco had lost his submachine gun in the collision, but he had drawn a long combat knife, slashing viciously at Adrian’s face and torso.
Adrian didn't retreat. He fought with the calculating brutality of a man defending his only child. His knuckles were wrapped in lead tape, each punch landing with the sound of a sledgehammer hitting wet beef.
Marco lunged, the knife slicing across Adrian’s left shoulder, ripping through his black shirt and leaving a deep, bloody gouge. Adrian didn't even flinch. He grabbed Marco’s wrist, twisting it violently until the sickening *CRACK* of breaking bone echoed above the blaring alarms.
The knife clattered to the hardwood floor.
Marco screamed in agony, but Adrian gave him no quarter. He grabbed Marco by the throat, lifting the grown man several inches off the floor, and slammed him against the limestone fireplace mantle.
“You touched my daughter,” Adrian snarled, his voice a guttural roar from the depths of hell. “You put her in the garbage.”
“Adrian… please…” Marco gasped, his face turning purple as Adrian’s iron grip crushed his windpipe. “We’re… brothers…”
“My brother died when you poisoned that bottle,” Adrian said.
With a terrifying, deliberate motion, Adrian drew his own sidearm from his shoulder holster, pressed the cold muzzle against Marco’s kneecap, and pulled the trigger.
*BANG.*
Marco shrieked, collapsing into a heap on the floor, clutching his shattered leg and sobbing like a child.
Dante and three armed security guards burst into the room a second later, their weapons drawn, sweeping the corners.
“Perimeter secure, Boss!” Dante shouted, taking in the scene. “Marco’s strike team is neutralized. Santos and the state police are at the front gates now.”
Adrian didn't look at Dante. He didn't look at his groveling cousin on the floor.
He slowly lowered his gun, his chest heaving, blood dripping freely from his slashed shoulder onto the pastel nursery rug. He turned his head slowly and looked at me.
I was standing by the crib, my body wrapped protectively around Emma, shielding her from the sight of the violence. The baby had buried her face in my shoulder, trembling, her tiny fingers clutching my hair.
Adrian looked down at the blood on his hands, then at his daughter.
A look of sudden horror washed over his features. The monster that had just shattered a man’s knee vanished, replaced by an agonizing sense of shame. He took a step backward toward the broken door, keeping his bloody hands away from us.
“Take her out of here,” Adrian rasped to me, his voice trembling. “Don’t let her see me like this.”
“Adrian,” I said, stepping forward.
“Take her out!” he shouted, turning away, unable to bear the sight of his innocence reflected in his daughter's eyes.
Dante stepped beside me, his face grim. “Miss Isabella, come. The west wing is secure. Let the medics look at him.”
I held Emma tight against my chest as we were escorted down the hall. But as I walked away, I looked back over my shoulder.
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Adrian Valente, the undisputed king of Chicago, stood amidst the wreckage of his daughter's nursery, his head bowed in the shadows, bleeding and completely, utterly alone.
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