Chapter 3 - The Shadow over the Mansion
The revelation changed everything.
The mansion, once a lonely fortress of isolation, began to shift. Salvatore no longer spent his days staring blankly out the window at the dead garden. He ordered his men to set up a small play area in the corner of his grand library. He bought wooden train sets, building blocks, and art supplies.
Milo never spoke, but a quiet language developed between them. A glance from Salvatore meant sit down; a knock on the armrest from Milo meant look at what I built.
Nadia’s status in the house transformed rapidly. She was no longer just a cleaning woman; Salvatore assigned her to oversee his personal quarters, paying her ten times her original wage. But with this newfound comfort came a rising tide of danger.
Gianni Ferraro was watching.
One evening, while Salvatore was in his private study reviewing intelligence reports on Aldo Bianchi’s movements, his inner security chief, Marco, walked in with a dark expression.
“Boss,” Marco said, lowering his voice. “Gianni’s been asking questions about the girl and her kid.”
Salvatore didn't look up from his desk. “What kind of questions?”
“He knows her husband was Alexei Volkov. He thinks you’re harboring them to build a case against Bianchi, or worse, that you’re softening up. He’s telling the capos that you’ve lost your mind—that you’re letting a mute orphan and a cleaning lady dictate your life.”
Salvatore’s eyes flashed with icy fury. “Gianni is an idiot who mistakes cruelty for strength.”
“Maybe so, Sal,” Marco said cautiously. “But Bianchi is making moves. He’s allied with the Moretti family. They know Gianni is weak. If they take Gianni down, they’re coming here next. They won't spare the girl. They won't spare the child.”
Salvatore’s hand gripped his fountain pen so hard the metal groaned. He knew Marco was right. His physical paralysis had made his enemies brave. They thought the Wolf was declawed.
At that moment, the door pushed open. Milo walked in, holding a drawing he had made with colored pencils. He walked past Marco without a glance and held the paper up to Salvatore.
It was a drawing of three figures. A large gray wolf with a scar on its face, a smaller girl holding a mop, and a little boy holding a wooden soldier.
Salvatore looked at the drawing, feeling a sudden, fiercely protective urge rising in his chest—a feeling he hadn't experienced in years. He wasn't just surviving anymore; he had something to fight for.
“Marco,” Salvatore said, his voice as sharp as a razor.
“Yes, Boss?”
“Call my private physician in Boston. Tell him I want the aggressive physical therapy protocol started tomorrow morning. The one he said would be pure torture.”
Marco’s eyes widened. “Boss... the doctor said the nerve damage—”
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“I don’t care what the doctor said!” Salvatore snapped, his voice ringing through the oak walls. “I am going to stand on my own two feet again, even if it kills me. And prepare the armory. We are going to war.”
Milo didn't flinch at the raised voice. He simply reached into his pocket, pulled out the wooden soldier, and stood it right on top of his drawing.
