CHAPTER 3 – THE FIRST BLOOD OF THE WAR
CHAPTER 3 – THE FIRST BLOOD OF THE WAR
By midnight, every major criminal family in New York had heard the same message.
It wasn't shouted.
It wasn't negotiated.
It arrived as a single sentence delivered by encrypted phone, whispered in private clubs, repeated in underground casinos, and carried into back rooms where powerful men suddenly forgot how to breathe.
Dante Marchetti was hunting.
And this time...
It wasn't over territory.
It wasn't over money.
Someone had tried to kill the woman under his protection.
That made it personal.
Emma didn't sleep.
The luxurious bedroom felt more like a prison than a sanctuary.
Every expensive detail reminded her that none of it belonged to her.
Outside her window, Manhattan glittered peacefully, unaware that somewhere in the darkness men were preparing to kill each other because of a housemaid who had never wanted any part of their world.
A soft knock interrupted her thoughts.
Mrs. Vivian Cole entered carrying a tray.
Soup.
Tea.
Fresh bread.
"You haven't eaten."
"I'm not hungry."
Vivian sat across from her.
"Mr. Marchetti hasn't eaten either."
Emma looked up.
"I don't care."
Vivian gave the faintest smile.
"That is not true."
Three floors below...
Dante stood inside the security operations room.
Twenty-four monitors surrounded him.
Luca entered quickly.
"We found the SUV."
"Where?"
"Abandoned in Brooklyn."
"And the driver?"
"Dead."
Dante's eyes narrowed.
"Execution?"
Luca nodded.
"Single bullet behind the ear."
Dante wasn't surprised.
The attack had been professional.
Professionals erased loose ends.
"What else?"
Luca hesitated.
"There was one thing."
He placed a burned metal coin on the table.
A wolf's head had been engraved into the steel.
Dante stared at it for several seconds.
"The Volkovs..."
Luca swallowed.
"They're sending a message."
At the same time...
Across the East River...
Inside an abandoned warehouse...
Sergei Volkov slowly poured himself a glass of vodka.
The sixty-year-old Russian boss smiled while staring at a chessboard.
His grandson stood nearby.
"Did she die?"
Sergei calmly moved a black bishop.
"No."
"Then we failed."
"No."
The old man smiled wider.
"We learned something far more valuable."
He tapped the white king with one finger.
"Dante Marchetti has a weakness."
Back at the penthouse...
Emma quietly stepped into the kitchen for water.
She froze.
Dante was already there.
Still wearing yesterday's bloodstained shirt.
One sleeve had been cut open where doctors stitched his arm.
"You should be sleeping," he said without turning.
"So should you."
Silence.
She filled a glass.
"So..."
she finally asked,
"How many people are going to die because someone tried to hit me?"
Dante answered without emotion.
"As few as possible."
"And if that's fifty?"
He looked directly at her.
"Then fifty."
Emma set the glass down.
"That's not normal."
"No."
"You don't even hesitate."
"I learned a long time ago that hesitation buries innocent people."
She shook her head.
"I don't want anyone dying because of me."
His expression hardened.
"You don't get to decide that."
Her anger finally exploded.
"I don't get to decide anything!"
Her voice echoed through the kitchen.
"You investigated me!"
"You watched me!"
"You paid my mother's bills without asking!"
"You moved me into your building!"
"And now people want me dead!"
She was shaking.
"So tell me, Dante..."
"What exactly do I still control?"
For the first time...
He had no answer.
The next morning...
Emma packed her bag again.
Vivian watched silently.
"Leaving?"
"I'm ending this."
"You think they'll stop chasing you?"
"I have to try."
Vivian walked closer.
"You still don't understand."
Emma looked at her.
"The moment those people learned your name..."
Vivian's voice softened.
"...your old life ended."
Emma ignored the warning.
She left anyway.
This time Dante didn't stop her.
Neither did the guards.
She took the subway to Mount Sinai Hospital.
Her mother smiled the moment she entered.
"There you are."
Emma forced herself to smile back.
For fifteen beautiful minutes...
Everything felt normal.
Then...
The television inside the hospital room switched to breaking news.
A reporter stood outside a burning warehouse in Brooklyn.
"Police have confirmed multiple fatalities following what authorities describe as an organized crime explosion..."
Emma barely listened.
Until the reporter continued.
"Sources believe the building belonged to associates connected to the Volkov crime organization."
Her blood froze.
She knew.
She knew exactly who had done it.
Outside the hospital...
A man wearing a delivery uniform watched Emma through dark sunglasses.
He spoke quietly into an earpiece.
"Target confirmed."
Another voice answered.
"Take her alive."
The man smiled.
"With pleasure."
Emma hugged her mother goodbye.
"I'll come back tomorrow."
"You look tired, sweetheart."
"I'll be okay."
She kissed her mother's forehead and walked toward the parking garage.
The elevator doors opened.
Empty.
She stepped inside.
The doors closed.
Halfway down...
The elevator stopped.
The lights went out.
Darkness swallowed everything.
Emma reached for her phone.
Before she could unlock it...
A rough hand covered her mouth.
Another wrapped around her waist.
Someone whispered beside her ear.
"Don't scream."
Too late.
The emergency lights flickered on.
Three armed men surrounded her.
One pressed a gun against her ribs.
"The boss wants to meet you."
Emma fought wildly.
She bit one man's hand.
He cursed.
Another struck her across the face.
Stars exploded before her eyes.
A syringe appeared.
"No..."
She tried to run.
The needle slid into her neck.
Her vision blurred.
The last thing she heard...
May you like
was the elevator doors opening.
Then gunshots.
