Chapter 3 - THE WOUNDED BEASTThe western gatehouse was burning.
By the time Matteo reached the perimeter, the guard shack was a tangled mess of splintered timber and smoking black insulation. Two of his men were pinned behind a concrete retaining wall, returning fire against an unseen assault team hidden in the treeline beyond the frozen creek.
“Status!” Matteo barked, dropping into a crouch beside Marco behind the concrete barrier.
“Hit-and-run squad, boss!” Marco shouted over the deafening crack of gunfire. “Four, maybe five shooters with suppressed carbines. They blew the gate camera and pulled back into the woods the second our patrol engaged.”
Matteo raised his pistol, scanning the dark tree line where skeletal oak branches clawed at the starless sky. His mind raced with tactical calculations, but beneath the cold logic, a cold spike of dread pierced his chest.
The western gate was less than a hundred yards from the east guest lodge.
“They aren't trying to take the house,” Matteo realized with sudden, terrifying clarity. “They’re drawing our defense forces away from the interior perimeter.”
Marco’s eyes widened. “The lodge—”
BANG!
A heavy caliber round slammed into the concrete barrier just inches from Matteo’s head, showering them in white concrete dust.
“Fall back to the main house!” Matteo ordered, his voice cutting through the chaos. “Establish a crossfire along the rose garden walk! Move!”
As his men scrambled backward under covering fire, Matteo sprinted toward the path leading to the guest quarters. The snow crunched violently beneath his boots. The wind had picked up, howling through the pines like a pack of wolves.
When he reached the east lodge, his blood ran ice-cold.
The heavy wooden front door hung half-open, splintered around the deadbolt where a heavy crowbar had forced the frame.
Matteo raised his pistol, entering the room in a low, combat crouch. “Clara!”
The room was empty. The suitcase sat half-zipped on the bed. A single brass lamp lay overturned on the floor, its bulb shattered.
And lying in a pool of dark, sluggish blood near the shattered door frame was Bruno.
Matteo dropped to his knees, his weapon clattering uselessly to the floor.
“Bruno,” he gasped, pressing his hands against the thick black fur of the dog’s flank.
The massive Cane Corso was barely breathing. A deep, ragged bullet wound tore through his right shoulder, soaking his coat in crimson. He had taken a round meant for the door—meant for whoever was inside.
Footsteps echoed from the hallway, and Marco rushed into the room with his rifle raised, stopping dead when he saw the scene.
“Boss... Christ. The dog took the entry.”
“Where is she?” Matteo demanded, his voice shaking with a fury that transcended anything Marco had ever heard in their twenty years together.
“We found boot prints in the mud by the side window,” Marco reported grimly, handing Matteo a small, delicate silver earring resting in his palm.
Matteo stared at the earring. It was the simple silver drop Clara had been wearing that morning—the one she had smiled about when she told him it was the only piece of jewelry her grandmother had left her.
“Marcone,” Matteo whispered, standing up slowly.
May you like
The cold fury in his eyes was absolute. The man who had built an empire on patience, strategy, and iron restraint shattered in a single second.
“Get the doctor for the dog,” Matteo ordered, his voice dead flat. “And saddle the cars. We are going to Chicago.”
