Chapter 2 - Bloodlines and Broken Thrones
Three days passed, and the rain in Providence turned into a bitter, icy slush.
The atmosphere inside the mansion was growing increasingly toxic. Salvatore’s cousin, Gianni Ferraro, was making more frequent visits. Gianni was thirty-two, sharp-faced, with slicked-back dark hair and a penchant for wearing silk suits that smelled too strongly of expensive cologne. With Salvatore paralyzed, Gianni had stepped up as the de facto boss of the Providence syndicate, though he lacked Salvatore’s strategic brilliant mind and terrifying discipline.
Salvatore sat at the head of the long oak dining table. Across from him sat Gianni, swirling a glass of twenty-year-old scotch.
“You’re sitting on three million dollars worth of cold assets in the docks, Sal,” Gianni said, leaning forward, his golden signet ring clinking against the glass. “The Moretti family is moving into our territory in West End. Aldo Bianchi is running around free, telling everyone you’re a ghost sitting in a motorized throne. We need to liquidate the shipping routes and sign them over to my sub-bosses.”
“Aldo Bianchi shot me because you let him into the inner circle, Gianni,” Salvatore said quietly, his hands resting flat on the polished table.
“It was a mistake!” Gianni spat, his temper flaring. “Aldo betrayed us all! But you’re sitting up here in this mountain fortress playing the tragic victim while the family falls apart! Look at you, Sal! You can’t even stand up to shake a man’s hand!”
The room went ice cold. The two bodyguards standing near the sideboard held their breath.
Salvatore didn't flinch. He slowly raised his gaze, fixing Gianni with an expression so mercilessly dark that Gianni’s breath hitched in his throat.
“I don’t need to stand to cut your throat, cousin,” Salvatore whispered. “You want my territory? Bring me Aldo Bianchi’s head on a silver platter. Until then, you don’t touch a single dollar from the docks.”
Gianni slammed his glass onto the table, shattering the base. Whisky and glass shards sprayed across the mahogany. “You’re finished, Salvatore! Everyone knows it! You’re half a man!”
Gianni stormed out of the dining room, slamming the heavy doors so hard the crystal chandelier rattled overhead.
Salvatore sat alone in the echoing room. He closed his eyes, his breathing heavy, his fingers digging into the arms of his wheelchair until his nails bled. Half a man. The words burned like lye in an open wound. He reached down to his waist, feeling nothing. His body had become his own prison.
A small sound broke through his rage.
Clack.
Salvatore opened his eyes.
Milo was sitting under the long dining table, hidden by the overhang of the white linen tablecloth. He was holding two small wooden figurines—the soldier from three days ago, and a crude wooden horse. He was tapping them together in a rhythmic pattern.
Salvatore watched him. He realized Nadia must have been cleaning the adjacent formal parlor when Gianni’s shouting erupted, leaving Milo to hide under the table.
“You shouldn’t be under there,” Salvatore said, his voice exhausted, stripped of all terror. “It’s cold.”
Milo crawled out from under the tablecloth. He didn't look afraid of Salvatore’s dark mood. He walked over to the side of Salvatore’s chair, looked at the smashed glass and spilled scotch on the floor, and then looked at Salvatore’s hand.
Salvatore’s thumb was bleeding where a glass shard had clipped him.
Milo didn't panic. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a somewhat crumpled, clean blue handkerchief, and pressed it gently against Salvatore’s bleeding thumb.
Salvatore stared at the small boy. The child’s hands were tiny, warm, and astonishingly gentle.
“Why aren't you afraid of me?” Salvatore asked, his voice barely audible. “Everyone in this city is afraid of me. Or they pity me. Why aren't you?”
Milo didn't answer with words. He couldn't. Instead, he took the wooden soldier from his pocket and stood it upright on Salvatore’s blood-stained hand, right over the cut.
He tapped the soldier’s chest, then tapped Salvatore’s chest.
He thinks I am the soldier, Salvatore realized with a jolt that went straight to his heart. Broken, taped together, but still standing guard.
A strange, unfamiliar tightness gripped Salvatore’s throat. For the first time in six months, a tear slipped down the Wolf of Providence’s cheek. He quickly wiped it away, but Milo saw it. The child reached up and brushed a thumb against Salvatore’s scar.
The dining room door slid open, and Nadia stepped in, holding a laundry basket. When she saw her son standing so close to the fearsome mob boss, holding a handkerchief to his bloody hand, her breath caught.
“Milo!” she gasped, rushing forward. “Oh God, Mr. Ferraro, I am so sorry—”
“Leave him,” Salvatore commanded softly.
Nadia stopped. She looked between her son and the man in the wheelchair. She saw the soft, broken light in Salvatore’s eyes—a light that hadn't been there since he was brought home from the hospital.
“He... he doesn't usually touch strangers,” Nadia whispered, her eyes wide. “Since his father died... he hasn't let anyone touch him except me.”
“He’s not a stranger,” Salvatore said, his voice firming up. “He’s the only honest man in this house.”
Salvatore looked at Nadia. Really looked at her. He saw the dark circles under her eyes, the worn soles of her cheap shoes, and the fierce, protective love in her gaze whenever she looked at her son.
“What was your husband’s name?” Salvatore asked.
Nadia’s jaw tightened. “Alexei. He was an accountant. He... he refused to cook the books for Aldo Bianchi’s men two years ago. They shot him in our living room.”
Salvatore felt a jolt of cold lightning pass through his spine.
May you like
Aldo Bianchi.
The same man who had put three bullets into Salvatore’s back had murdered this boy’s father.
