Chapter 4 - Fortifying the Castle
By midnight, the lake house was no longer a quiet memorial to a dead wife; it was a militarized fortress.
Four black SUVs roared down the private gravel drive, kicking up mud and gravel in the pouring rain. Twelve of my most trusted enforcers—men who had bled for me through decades of turf wars—spilled out into the storm, securing the perimeter, setting up motion sensors, and positioning sniper posts along the tree line.
Vance, my head of security and a man whose loyalty had been bought with blood and saved lives, walked through the front door water-logged and grim.
"Perimeter is locked down, Boss," Vance reported, wiping rain from his tactical cap. "Thermal cameras are active. Nothing moves within a two-mile radius without us knowing about it. But if Detroit decides to hit us with heavy artillery, this wooden house isn't going to hold up for long."
"They won't use artillery," I said, standing by the window watching the lightning flash across the lake. "Salvatore is a coward who loves his money too much to risk an open war on Illinois soil. He'll send infiltrators. A ghost team."
"Then we'll feed them to the fish," Vance replied flatly. "What about the kids?"
I glanced toward the hallway leading to the guest room. "They're sleeping. Make sure nobody goes near them without my direct order. Especially my mother if she decides to send more uninvited guests."
"Understood." Vance hesitated, shifting his weight. "Boss... are you sure about this? Keeping them, I mean. The moment the Outfit finds out you're harboring Moretti blood, they're going to question your loyalty. Your own captains won't like it."
"Let them question," I turned around, my eyes cold and steady. "I built this empire with my own hands. Nobody—not my captains, not my mother, and certainly not a council of old men—tells me who lives under my roof."
Vance nodded once, respecting the iron in my voice, and turned back out into the storm to check the eastern sniper nest.
I walked down the dark corridor and quietly pushed open the door to the guest room.
The room was lit by a faint amber glow from the hallway nightlight. Ivy and Skye were curled together under a thick patchwork quilt Claire had sewn herself years ago. Skye had her thumb tucked into her mouth, while Ivy had one small arm thrown protectively over her sister, still clutching the empty silver keepsake box against her chest even in her sleep.
I walked over, kneeling beside the bed, and gently brushed a tangle of dark hair away from Ivy’s forehead.
She looked so much like Claire it physically ached. For two years, I had believed that love was a weakness I had successfully excised from my heart, traded away for power, control, and absolute dominance. I had convinced myself that Claire’s death meant the end of my capacity to care for anything human.
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Yet looking at these two little girls, I realized the lie I had been telling myself.
I didn't just want to protect them because they were my blood. I wanted to protect them because looking into their green eyes felt like having Claire back—if only for a few stolen moments in the dark.
