Chapter 3 - THE WOLF’S FORTRESS
By nightfall, the abandoned basement was empty.
The children were no longer sleeping on narrow cots surrounded by peeling paint and exposed pipes. They were inside Victor Moretti’s sprawling limestone mansion on the Gold Coast—a heavily guarded fortress surrounded by iron gates, private security patrols, and state-of-the-art surveillance systems.
The east wing of the mansion, which had been locked and gathering dust for years, had been completely transformed within hours under Victor’s ferocious, unyielding commands.
In the grand dining room, a massive mahogany table—usually reserved for high-level syndicate meetings and tense negotiations with corrupt politicians—was currently covered in plates of chicken tenders, french fries, and warm milk.
Little Noah sat in a high chair at the head of the table, happily swinging his legs while Victor stood beside him, cutting his food into tiny, perfect pieces with the intense concentration of a bomb disposal expert.
Across the table, Daniel, Lucas, Emma, and Ava ate in stunned silence, still trying to process the sudden shift from a damp basement to a palace lined with crystal chandeliers and priceless art.
Olivia sat near the end of the table, nursing a cup of black coffee, watching Victor with a mixture of awe and deep, lingering anxiety.
The double doors of the dining room swung open.
Marco Rossi, Victor’s chief enforcer, stepped inside, carrying a thick leather dossier under his arm. His face was grim. He cast a wary glance at the children before walking over to whisper directly into Victor’s ear.
"Boss, we checked the perimeter cameras," Marco said in a low, gravelly tone. "Two unmarked sedans have been circling the outer gates for the last hour. Our sources in the South Side say Vincent Vance’s crew caught wind that you pulled six kids out of a basement on 4th Street. They’re putting two and two together."
Victor’s hand froze mid-motion. The fork in his fingers snapped cleanly in half against the edge of the plate.
The dining room went dead silent. The children stopped eating, sensing the sudden shift in the atmosphere.
Victor slowly set the broken fork down, wiped his hands with a napkin, and turned his cold, piercing grey eyes toward his enforcer.
"Vincent Vance," Victor murmured, the name sounding like a death sentence. "The pathetic little rat thinks he can use my children to renegotiate the dock shipping routes?"
"He's testing you, Boss," Marco warned. "He thinks you've gone soft because of the kids."
Olivia stood up from her chair, her heart hammering against her ribs. "Victor, you can't start a turf war over this! That's what I was trying to prevent! If Vance attacks—"
"Vance won't attack," Victor interrupted, his voice terrifyingly calm, absolute, and devoid of fear. He walked over to Olivia, stopping just inches away, looking down into her eyes with an intensity that stole the breath right out of her lungs. "Vance is about to find out what happens when a wolf discovers someone is sniffing around his den."
He turned back to Marco.
"Double the perimeter guard. Activate the sniper nests on the roof. And Marco?"
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"Yes, Boss?"
"Bring me Vincent Vance’s head on a silver platter by midnight. I want every rival syndicate in Chicago to know that anyone who looks at my family will not live to see tomorrow's sunrise."
