Victor growled. “Be my guest.”
In the bathroom, Clara heard heavy footsteps. Boots. “Someone’s in here,” a voice said.
“Door’s locked. Kick it.” Clara tightened her grip on the bar.
Through the curtain, she saw Luke’s small shadow, perfectly still. Good boy. “Go!”
The door flew inward. Two men entered with rifles. In the dark, they didn’t immediately see Clara pressed against the wall by the frame.
The voice of her anatomy professor echoed in her head: “The carotid artery feeds the brain. A strike to the right spot causes unconsciousness in seconds.”
Clara swung with everything she had. The first man went down like a sack of stones—the metal bar hit him square in the temple.
The second man spun toward her. But Clara was already moving. She jabbed the bar into his throat.
He didn’t die, but he fell to his knees, gasping for air. She wrenched the pistol from his hand, her fingers nearly dropping it from the tremors. “Clara!” Luke’s terrified voice came from the tub.
“Stay there!” She pointed the gun at the door, her finger on the trigger. More running footsteps. Tony’s voice.
“Clara, it’s me, Tony! Don’t shoot!” “How do I know it’s you?” Clara yelled. “Because the Boss will kill me if anything happens to you or the kid. And because I’m on your side.”
“Fine.” Clara lowered the gun slightly as Tony appeared in the doorway with a flashlight. He saw the two men on the floor and whistled.
“Remind me never to get on your bad side. It’s over.” “Not yet.”
Tony went to the tub to check on Luke. “But the Boss is finishing it. He’s going to be fine, you’ll see.”
Victor stood in the ruined foyer. Around him lay the bodies of enemies and traitors who had chosen the wrong side. The survivors were on their knees, hands zip-tied.
They had bet on the wrong horse. “Please, Boss,” one pleaded. “Frank made us. He said you’d gone soft. He said you were weak because you loved the boy.”
Victor finished the sentence quietly. “Because I showed emotion. Because I wasn’t willing to sacrifice family for power.”
He walked down the line of prisoners. “You know what the funny thing is? Frank was right about one thing—I did change when Luke was born. I did get softer.”
He stopped. “But tonight, you reminded me who I really am. Who I’ve always been.”
He raised his gun. “I’m a man who survives. At any cost.”
The remaining guards were silent, stunned. Victor usually delegated the ‘dirty work.’ But tonight, he wanted everyone to see.
The message had to be clear. “Does anyone else want to question my strength?” Victor’s voice echoed through the estate.
“Does anyone else think my son makes me weak?” Silence. “Good.”
Victor holstered his weapon. “Clean this up. I want every traitor identified by morning. And bring Frank Russo to my office, alive.”
As his men scrambled to follow orders, Victor climbed the stairs to Luke’s room. His suit was ruined, but he didn’t care.
His hands were steady now. The rage had been replaced by a cold, hard clarity. He found Tony, Clara, and Luke in the hallway.
Clara was still holding the pistol, shielding the boy. Seeing Victor, she started to lower the gun, but he shook his head. “Keep it,” he said.
“You’ve earned the right to defend yourself.” He knelt in front of his son. Luke’s eyes were red from crying, but he was unharmed.
“Dad,” Luke whispered. “I know, son. It was scary. But Clara protected you.
She’s part of the family now, you understand?
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