Chapter 8 - The Siege of Blackwood
The calm lasted until three o'clock in the afternoon.
The dining room had been dressed in ivory linen. Antonio had outdone himself: bowls of whipped Yukon potatoes swimming in yellow butter, roasted root vegetables glazed with honey, cranberry compote spiced with orange peel, and in the center of the table, resting on a silver platter, the twenty-four-pound turkey, carved into thick, succulent slices of dark and white meat.
Sophie sat at the head of the table, a paper party crown balanced crookedly on her dark curls, her plate piled impossibly high with potatoes and stuffing. Marco sat to her left, looking absurdly large next to the fine china, methodically stripping a turkey leg with the efficiency of an industrial meat grinder while Sophie giggled at his appetite.
Lorenzo sat at the opposite end of the table, his glass raised in a toast.
“To Matteo,” Lorenzo said softly, looking at Elena.
“To Matteo,” Elena echoed, lifting her glass of sparkling cider.
Marco raised his water glass. “To the boy who pulled me from the fire.”
Sophie raised her mug of hot cocoa, her eyes shining. “To Daddy.”
They drank. For a fleeting, golden moment, the blood, the violence, and the six years of bitter grief vanished beneath the warmth of the roaring hearth and the simple, sacred joy of a family reunited.
Then, from the depths of the security wing beneath the house, an alarm chimed.
Three short, rhythmic electronic pulses.
Marco’s glass hit the table without a drop spilling. In a heartbeat, the gentle giant vanished, replaced by the lethal operator who had survived the streets of Red Hook. He reached beneath his dinner jacket, his hand closing over the grip of a suppressed submachine gun resting in a custom holster.
Lorenzo didn't move. He set his wine glass down with absolute precision, wiped his mouth with his linen napkin, and met Marco’s gaze.
“The perimeter?” Lorenzo asked.
“South gate,” Marco replied, pulling an encrypted tactical tablet from his inner pocket. “Thermal sensors tripped on the outer ridge. Three vehicles. Unmarked black pickups. Heavy armor.”
Elena’s fork clattered against her plate. All the warmth and color drained from her face in an instant. “Moretti,” she whispered.
“Silvio’s insurance policy,” Lorenzo said, his voice ice-cold. He stood up, towering at the end of the table. “Silvio had a dead-man’s switch. If he didn't check in with Carmine Moretti by noon today, Moretti knew the family was compromised. He’s sending his heavy crew to take the estate before I can consolidate the northern capos.”
Sophie stopped chewing. She looked at Lorenzo, her small face solemn, her little hands gripping the edge of the mahogany table.
“Are the bad men coming here?” she asked.
Lorenzo walked to the head of the table. He leaned down, placing his large hands over her small ones.
“Sophie,” he said softly. “You remember what I told you at the store?”
“You said you don't like being alone on holidays.”
“That’s right,” Lorenzo whispered, smiling gently. “And nobody takes my family away on Thanksgiving. Not ever again.”
He looked up at Marco. “Take Elena and Sophie to the vault beneath the cellar. Four feet of reinforced concrete and independent air scrubbers. Lock the blast door from the inside.”
“Lorenzo, no!” Elena cried, struggling to stand on her new crutches. “You can't fight them alone! There will be dozens of them!”
“I’m not alone, Elena,” Lorenzo said.
He walked to the wall beside the great fireplace and pressed a concealed wooden panel. The masonry slid aside with a heavy pneumatic hiss, revealing a weapons rack stocked with military-grade hardware: suppressed tactical carbines, body armor, and drum-fed shotguns.
Lorenzo pulled a tactical vest over his wool sweater, strapped two spare magazines to his belt, and picked up a custom short-barreled SIG Sauer MCX rifle.
He racked the bolt, the sharp, metallic snap echoing through the grand hall like a declaration of war.
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“This is my home,” Lorenzo said, his eyes reflecting the cold blue winter light streaming through the fortified windows. “And on Blackwood Ridge, the Duca family does not negotiate.”
***
