Chapter 3 - THE WOLVES AT THE DOOR
"No," I whispered, panic clawing at my throat. "Nico is out there. I'm not leaving without him."
"You won't have to," Damiano said, his eyes scanning the narrow sliver of the diner visible through the vent. "I'm going to clear the room. You just get him out the alley door. My car is parked three blocks east. Here."
He blindly shoved a heavy set of keys into my hand. His fingers were cold, calloused, and so familiar they made my heart physically ache.
Through the vent, I could see two men in heavy leather jackets pushing past Dot. Dot, bless her stubborn heart, stood her ground with a coffee pot raised like a club.
"Hey! You don't come behind my counter!" Dot yelled.
One of the men shoved her hard. Dot stumbled backward, hitting the pie case with a sickening thud.
"Dot!" Nico screamed. My baby was standing up in the booth, his little hands clutching a green crayon, his face pale with terror.
"Hold on," Damiano hissed, feeling my body lunge forward. His arm barred me like an iron gate. "They want me, Sienna. They don't know you're alive yet."
"Where is he?" the larger man barked, pulling a weapon from his jacket.
Damiano didn't hesitate. He kicked the storage room door open so violently the hinges screamed. He stepped out, instantly drawing their fire, but he was faster. Two silenced shots echoed through the diner—*pfft, pfft*.
Both men dropped.
The diner erupted into chaos. Customers screamed, scrambling under tables.
"Nico! Come here!" I shrieked, sprinting out of the storage room.
Nico scrambled out of the booth, his little legs pumping. I caught him in my arms, hauling him against my chest. He was trembling violently, his face buried in my neck.
"Mama, the loud noise," he sobbed.
"I know, baby, I know, don't look," I choked out, pressing his face into my apron.
Damiano stood over the bodies, his gun still raised, sweeping the room. "Dot! Are you okay?" he barked.
Dot was sitting on the floor, rubbing her shoulder. She looked from the dead men, to the gun in Damiano's hand, to me holding Nico. "Claire," she wheezed. "What kind of trouble did you bring to my diner?"
"I'm so sorry, Dot," I cried. "Call the police. Tell them a gang came in. Tell them nothing about us."
"Go," Dot waved us off, her face pale. "Just go."
Damiano grabbed my elbow, his grip bruising but secure. He steered us through the kitchen and out the heavy steel back door into the freezing sleet.
The alley was dark, smelling of wet cardboard and old grease. "Three blocks east," Damiano ordered, keeping his body between us and the street. "Move."
We ran. The sleet stung my face, slicking the pavement beneath my worn sneakers. Nico clung to me like a koala, completely silent now—the terrifying, learned silence of a child who senses mortal danger.
"Why are they shooting at you?" I gasped as we rounded the first corner.
"There's a bounty on my head," Damiano said grimly, his eyes darting to every shadow. "My uncle stepped down last month. The families are fracturing. Everyone wants the throne."
We reached his car—a massive, armored black SUV. Damiano unlocked it, practically throwing the back door open. I scrambled in with Nico, buckling him into the heavy leather seat.
Damiano slid into the driver's seat and gunned the engine. The SUV roared to life, tearing out of the parking spot just as a silver sedan screeched around the corner, its headlights blinding us.
Damiano slammed the gears into reverse, spinning the massive vehicle with terrifying precision, sending us rocketing down a side street.
In the backseat, Nico sniffled. He slowly uncurled his fist. Inside was the crumpled drawing he had been working on at the diner.
"I messed up my dinosaur," Nico whispered, a tear sliding down his cheek.
Damiano glanced in the rearview mirror. For a second, the hardened mafia boss completely vanished. He looked at Nico with a tenderness so raw it made my breath catch.
"It's a beautiful dinosaur, piccolo," Damiano said softly.
Nico blinked. "What does that mean?"
"It means little one," I answered softly.
As Damiano navigated the dark, slick roads, evading the silver sedan, he reached into his coat pocket to pull out a spare magazine for his gun. As he did, something heavy and gold fell onto the center console.
It was an antique gold pocket watch.
I recognized it immediately. It belonged to Enzo. He used to check it obsessively during dinners at the estate.
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"Damiano," I whispered, staring at the watch. "Why do you have Enzo's watch?"
Damiano’s eyes flicked to the console, and his jaw locked. "Because," he said, his voice dropping to a deadly octave. "I pulled it off the man who tried to put a bullet in my head this morning. The man who told me you were dead."
