Enzo Rossi POV:
I kicked the flimsy wooden door. It shattered instantly, the splintered wood slamming against the wall with a deafening crack. Twenty-five years of failing my daughter coiled in my chest, mutating into pure, unadulterated violence.
The stench of fresh blood hit me like a physical blow. My pupils dilated. The metallic copper scent clawed at my throat, dragging me back twenty-five years to the night I lost my wife.
The Falcone Matriarch screamed. She stumbled backward, her expensive heels catching on a medical tray. It crashed to the floor, scattering stainless steel tools. The arrogant bitch who ruled the New York elite was crumbling under the weight of real power.
Rosa, the pathetic little snake, scrambled toward the doorway. A guard in a black suit stepped out from my shadow and slammed the butt of his rifle into her face. She crumpled to the floor in a heap.
I dropped my custom silver-handled cane. It clattered against the broken wood. I didn't care. Right now, I wasn't the head of the Chicago Outfit. I was a desperate father.
I took three massive strides to the bed and fell to my knees. The pool of blood soaked instantly into the fabric of my tailored suit pants, turning the dark wool a sickening crimson. My obsessive cleanliness meant nothing here.
My hands shook. Hands that had choked the life out of rival bosses trembled as I reached out to touch her. I was terrified of breaking her further.
My fingers brushed her shoulder. Isabella flinched violently in her semi-conscious state, shrinking away from my touch. The years of abuse in this house had rewired her instincts to expect pain.
My eyes burned hot and red. "Non aver paura, bambina mia," I whispered in pure Italian. *Don't be afraid.* I needed the mother tongue to bridge the twenty-five-year void between us.
Isabella forced her heavy eyelids open. Her unfocused gaze dropped to my hand, locking onto the heavy gold signet ring on my pinky. The exact crest her mother had sketched for her all those years ago.
"Who the hell are you?" the Matriarch shrieked, her voice shaking with fake bravado. "How dare you trespass on Southern territory!"
I ignored her. I pressed my two fingers against Isabella's carotid artery. My combat instincts took over.
Her pulse was a faint, erratic flutter.
My lungs stopped working. The suffocating terror of losing the only woman I ever loved clamped around my windpipe.
I slid my arms under Isabella's blood-soaked body and pulled her tight against my chest. I stood up slowly.
When I turned to face the Matriarch, the grieving father was gone. The Reaper of Chicago took his place.
I drew the M1911 from my shoulder holster faster than the eye could track. The weapon that built my empire leveled perfectly straight. I pressed the cold steel barrel directly against the center of the Matriarch's forehead.
She collapsed, her legs giving out completely. She hit the bloody floor, her aristocratic dignity shattering into pathetic sobs.
Footsteps thundered in the hallway. A dozen Southern guards rushed the door, raising their weapons at me.
My Outfit elites didn't flinch. They pivoted, raising their custom automatic rifles, forming an impenetrable wall of superior firepower.
"She is Isabella Rossi," I declared, my voice echoing like a death knell in the cramped room.
The Matriarch’s eyes bugged out of her skull. The name *Rossi* dropped like a bomb. She realized exactly whose blood she had spilled.
In the corner, Rosa whimpered, curling her bruised body into the darkest shadow she could find.
My finger tightened on the trigger. I was going to blow the Matriarch's brains all over the wallpaper.
Suddenly, Isabella convulsed against my chest. A violent cough tore through her throat.
Thick, black blood spilled from her lips, staining the pristine white of my dress shirt. The poison and the butchered miscarriage were destroying her from the inside out.
I ripped the gun away from the Matriarch's head. Vengeance could wait.
"Get the medevac chopper!" I roared at my men, my calculated composure completely destroyed. "Now!"
Isabella's arm slipped from my chest. Her hand fell, hitting her side with a dead, heavy thud.
A fresh wave of thick blood spilled over the edge of the mattress, pooling on the floorboards, creeping closer until it completely soaked my leather shoes.
"Hold on, Isabella! Don't you dare leave me!"
