Chapter 8 - A COLORFUL FOREVER
The explosion didn't happen in the ballroom. I wasn't suicidal enough to detonate the room we were standing in. Instead, the entire east wing of the Moretti compound—the armory and the barracks—vaporized in a catastrophic ball of fire and concussive force.
The shockwave hit the ballroom like a freight train. The heavy chandelier tore from the ceiling, crashing into the marble floor, plunging the room into darkness and chaos. Vincenzo was thrown backward, dropping his revolver. His men shouted in panic, disoriented by the blast and the choking dust.
I didn't hesitate. I lunged forward into the smoke, moving on pure instinct. I grabbed the heavy silver revolver Vincenzo had dropped. I fired three times into the darkness, dropping the guards nearest to Elena.
“Marcus! Now!” I roared into the chaos.
On cue, the front doors exploded inward. Marcus and my men flooded the room, armed with assault rifles and night-vision goggles. They moved with lethal, coordinated precision, cutting down Moretti’s men in the darkness before they could recover their bearings.
I reached Elena, frantically untying the heavy ropes binding her wrists. “I’ve got you,” I panted, throwing my body over hers and Lily’s as gunfire raged around us. “I’ve got you.”
Lily clung to my neck, sobbing into my shirt. Elena grabbed my face, her hands trembling, pulling me down into a desperate, tear-stained kiss amidst the flying bullets and screaming men. “You idiot,” she sobbed against my lips. “You beautiful, reckless idiot.”
The firefight was brief. The Moretti syndicate, decapitated and outgunned, surrendered or died. When the smoke finally began to clear, the emergency lights flickered on.
Vincenzo Moretti was crawling across the blood-slicked marble, trying to reach a side door. I stood up, keeping Elena and Lily behind me, and walked over to him. I aimed the silver revolver at the back of his head.
He froze. “Adrian, wait! We can make a deal! We can divide the city!”
I looked down at the man who had ordered my death, who had terrified the woman I loved, who had made a little girl cry. I felt no rage, no malice. Only a cold, absolute finality.
“The city is already mine,” I said. I pulled the trigger.
---
Six months later, the Chicago underworld was unrecognizable. The Romano syndicate still existed, but it had changed. The illegal casinos and the smuggling rings were shut down, transitioned into legitimate shipping and real estate empires. I was no longer a warlord; I was a CEO. Fear still kept men in line, but it was a quiet, dormant fear. They knew the monster was asleep, and they knew better than to wake him.
The mansion had been repaired, but it no longer felt like a fortress. It felt like a home.
I sat in my study, sunlight streaming through the massive windows, reviewing a legitimate contract for a new downtown development. The door burst open, and Lily ran in, her hair in wild pigtails, clutching a brand-new stuffed bear.
“Daddy!” she squealed, launching herself at my legs.
I dropped my pen and scooped her up, tossing her into the air. She giggled, the sound filling the corners of the room that used to hold only shadows. She called me Daddy now. The first time she said it, I had to leave the room so my men wouldn't see their boss cry.
Elena walked in a moment later, looking breathtaking in a simple sundress, carrying a tray with two coffees. She smiled, setting the tray down, and walked around the desk to slide her arms around my neck.
“She’s supposed to be taking a nap,” Elena teased, kissing my cheek.
“Monsters don't nap, Mommy!” Lily declared, grabbing a red marker from my desk.
I pulled Elena onto my lap, wrapping my arms around her waist, burying my face in her neck. I breathed in the scent of vanilla and home.
“Let her draw,” I murmured, smiling against Elena’s skin as Lily approached my face with the uncapped red marker.
Elena laughed, a bright, beautiful sound. “Adrian, you have a meeting with the mayor in an hour.”
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“The mayor can wait,” I said, closing my eyes and tilting my head back, offering my face to my daughter. “I’ve got an appointment with an artist.”
As the cold tip of the marker traced a clumsy star on my cheek, I knew the terrifying, ruthless Adrian Romano was completely dead. In his place sat a man who possessed a wealth far greater than power, money, or fear. I was a man who had finally been painted with the colors of love, and I would never, ever wash them away.
