Chapter 2 - The Blue Door
The building at the corner of 4th Avenue and 12th Street was a decaying four-story brick tenement. Its fire escapes were rusted red, hanging off the facade like broken ribs, and the streetlamps flickered weakly against the torrents of rain.
The blue door was flaking paint, its wood swollen from decades of moisture.
Alessandro stepped out of the Maybach first, refusing Marco’s offer of an umbrella. He carried Annie in his arms, her small body completely swallowed by his massive dark coat. Two heavily armed guards stepped out of the trailing SUV, their hands tucked inside their long coats, eyes scanning the dark rooftops and alleyways.
“Third floor,” Annie whispered against Alessandro’s neck. “The lock on the door is broken. You have to push hard.”
Alessandro carried her up the dark, narrow stairwell. The scent of boiled cabbage, damp plaster, and old radiator steam filled the hallway. With every step he took up those creaking stairs, Alessandro’s heart felt heavier.
This is where my blood lived, he thought, his jaw clenching until his teeth bruised. While I sat in a penthouse in Manhattan drinking forty-year-old scotch, my daughter was climbing these stairs in worn-out shoes.
When they reached Apartment 3B, Alessandro didn't knock. He pushed the blue-painted wooden door open with his boot.
The apartment was tiny—a single room serving as a kitchen, living area, and bedroom. A small radiator clanked in the corner, releasing a weak puff of heat. The place was spotless, despite its poverty. Cheap cotton curtains hung over the window, and a small wooden table held a single plate with crusts of bread.
In the corner, lying on a narrow twin bed beneath two thin blankets, was an elderly woman.
Her hair was stark white, her skin as grey as winter ashes. Her chest heaved with a terrifying, wet rattle with every ragged breath she took.
When the heavy door swung open and three large men in tailored suits stepped into her apartment, the old woman’s eyes snapped open in terror. With a desperate, agonizing effort, her trembling hand reached beneath her pillow, pulling out a small, rusted revolver.
“Get away from her...” the old woman gasped, her voice barely a wheeze. “Don't... don't touch my baby...”
“Grandma!” Annie cried out from Alessandro’s arms.
Alessandro immediately lowered himself to his knees beside the bed, placing Annie gently onto the mattress. He put his hands up, open and unthreatening, keeping his body positioned between his guards and the dying woman.
“Lower the weapon, Rose,” Alessandro said quietly.
The old woman froze. She squinted through her clouded, fevered eyes, taking in the sharp jaw, the pale gray eyes, and the absolute authority radiating from the man kneeling before her.
The gun trembled violently in her hand. “Alessandro...?”
“It’s me,” Alessandro said softly. He reached out, gently taking the heavy steel revolver from her weak, cold fingers and placing it on the nightstand. “I found her outside the pharmacy.”
Tears welled in Rose’s cloudy eyes, spilling over her wrinkled cheeks. “She... she went out? I told her... I told her to stay...”
“She was trying to save your life, Rose,” Alessandro said. He turned to Marco. “Where is Giuliano?!”
As if on cue, heavy footsteps echoed down the hallway. Dr. Giuliano, the Moretti family’s private surgeon, rushed into the room carrying two heavy medical kits, accompanied by two paramedics carrying a portable stretcher.
“Get to work,” Alessandro ordered, standing up to give them room.
Giuliano didn't waste a second. Within thirty seconds, an oxygen mask was fitted over Rose’s pale face, an IV line was inserted into her wrist, and antibiotics were pumping into her bloodstream.
Giuliano looked up at Alessandro, his expression grave. “Severe double pneumonia, Don Alessandro. She’s in septic shock. If your daughter hadn't met you tonight... she would have passed away before dawn.”
Alessandro felt a cold chill run down his spine. He looked down at Annie, who was sitting on the edge of the bed, holding Rose’s free hand, her small face filled with intense concentration.
“Will she live?” Alessandro asked.
“If I get her to my private surgical center in Manhattan right now? Yes,” Giuliano nodded. “We can stabilize her.”
“Do it,” Alessandro commanded. “Spare no expense. She gets the master suite.”
As the paramedics carefully lifted Rose onto the stretcher, the old woman reached out, her fingers catching the lapel of Alessandro’s suit jacket. She pulled the oxygen mask down slightly with a agonizing breath.
“Alessandro...” Rose whispered, her voice crackling like dry leaves. “Elena... Elena didn't leave you... because she stopped loving you...”
Alessandro felt his heart contract. “I know, Rose. Tell me later.”
“No... listen to me,” Rose wheezed, her grip tightening on his jacket with surprising strength. “The fire four years ago... it wasn't just Falcone’s men. Someone... someone inside your own house gave Falcone the security codes to the Staten Island safehouse. Elena heard them talking on the phone before the hit... She fled because she didn't know who you could trust... She knew if she came back to you, the traitor would kill the baby...”
Alessandro felt the room drop into absolute zero.
A traitor inside the Moretti inner circle.
For four years, he had believed Falcone had simply mounted a brilliant tactical raid. But Elena had discovered a snake inside his own sanctuary. She had gone into hiding, living in bitter poverty, giving up her life as a high-society woman to protect their unborn child from a knife in the dark.
“Who?” Alessandro whispered, his eyes flashing with a terrifying, demonic fire. “Rose, did she give you a name?”
“She... she never said the name...” Rose coughed, her body shuddering. “She only said... it was someone who wore a ring... with a red ruby... someone who sat at your right hand...”
Alessandro’s breath caught.
There were only three men in the Moretti syndicate who wore red ruby signet rings—the highest rank of Caporegime.
One was Marco Rossi, who stood three feet behind him.
The second was Lucian Moretti, his cousin and Underboss.
The third was Matteo Vance, Elena’s own uncle, who managed the family’s international shipping lanes.
“Get her to the hospital,” Alessandro commanded, his voice unnaturally calm—the quiet before a hurricane. “Protect her with twenty armed men. No one enters her room without my personal clearance.”
“Understood, Don Alessandro,” Giuliano said, wheeling Rose out into the dark hallway.
Alessandro stood alone in the center of the dilapidated apartment. He looked around at the damp walls, the cheap bread, the cold floorboards. Then he looked down at Annie, who was standing quietly near the radiator, clutching her red pharmacy bag, watching him with those large, knowing eyes.
Alessandro walked over to his daughter. He knelt before her, reaching down to pick her up. He cradled her small frame against his chest, feeling her tiny heart beating fast against his ribs.
“We’re going home, Annie,” he whispered against her hair.
May you like
Annie looked up at his stern, dangerous face. “Is Grandma going to be okay?”
“Grandma is going to live,” Alessandro promised, his voice carrying the weight of an oath sworn before God. “And the people who put you in this room are going to burn.”
