Chapter 2 - The House of Broken Glass
My primary residence was not a flashy penthouse or an ostentatious mansion in the suburbs. It was a fortress.
Nestled behind twelve-foot stone walls on the crest of Blackwood Hill, the estate had belonged to the Vance family for three generations. It featured reinforced steel-core doors, bulletproof glass, private power generators, and an internal security system managed by a dozen men who had taken blood oaths to my family long before the city lost its mind.
When my heavily armored sedan pulled through the iron gates, my second-in-command, a massive, gray-tempered veteran named Thomas, was already standing on the stone steps. His hand rested on his holstered weapon, his eyes scanning the road behind us.
When he saw me step out of the rear door carrying a shivering child wrapped in my coat, followed by a limping, muddy dog that looked like a skeleton covered in fur, even Thomas lost his professional composure.
“Boss?” Thomas gasped, running down the steps. “What happened? We got the alarm signal from Sector 4, but by the time the team reached the alley, the Red Crown hit squad was already dead.”
“Get Doc Miller up to the master suite,” I ordered, sweeping past him into the warm, chandelier-lit foyer. “I want a full physical examination for the girl. Malnutrition, exposure, trauma. And get a vet for the dog.”
“A vet?” Thomas blinked, staring at Bear, who was sniffing suspiciously at a Persian rug. “Dante, who is she? The Red Crown has been mobilizing along the canal all night. Word on the street is that someone high up in their organization put out a two-million-dollar bounty on a runner.”
I stopped at the foot of the grand mahogany staircase. The heat from the massive marble fireplace washed over us, causing Maya to let out a long, shuddering sigh against my shoulder. She was already half-asleep, her tiny hand still clutching the silver locket so tightly her knuckles were white.
“She’s not a runner, Thomas,” I said, looking him dead in the eye. “She’s my niece.”
Thomas froze. His breath caught in his throat. “Niece? Dante... Julian’s been dead for six years. We buried him—”
“We buried an empty box with fifty pounds of lead inside to make it heavy enough for a grave,” I corrected, my voice laced with an edge of quiet bitterness. “Julian survived. He’s been living in the shadows for six years under my nose, keeping her safe.”
“If Julian’s alive,” Thomas whispered, his mind rapidly connecting the political dots, “then the fire six years ago wasn't an accident by the rival families. It was an internal purge.”
“Precisely,” I said. “And whoever tried to kill my brother six years ago just finished the job tonight in a safehouse downtown. But they missed the prize.”
I carried Maya upstairs to the master suite, laying her gently onto the enormous king-sized bed. The contrast between her torn, filthy clothes and the pristine white Egyptian cotton sheets was heartbreaking.
Within twenty minutes, Doc Miller—our private physician who had patched up my bullet wounds more times than I could count—arrived with his medical kit. He was a quiet, silver-haired man who asked no questions. He administered an IV fluid drip for severe dehydration, treated Maya’s frostbitten fingers with warming salve, and carefully bandaged Bear’s leg on a rug near the foot of the bed.
As the child drifted into a deep, medicated sleep, her breathing finally becoming slow and even, I sat in a high-backed leather chair beside the bed, holding the silver locket in my hand.
I popped the latch again.
Her father lives.
Why had Julian hidden from me for six years? Why wouldn't he come to me—the ruler of the city, the man with an army at his disposal—when he was in danger? Why wait until his house was burning and his life was ending to send his daughter into the freezing streets to find me?
There was only one logical answer: Julian didn't trust my inner circle. He knew that whoever had betrayed him six years ago was sitting right beside me at my table.
A soft knock sounded at the bedroom door.
Thomas stepped inside, holding a secure tablet. His face was grim.
“We ran the prints from the locket, boss,” Thomas said softly. “And we pulled the fire department logs from the arson call in the south district three hours ago.”
“Give it to me,” I said.
“The house belonged to an alias—Arthur Pendelton,” Thomas read from the screen. “Neighbors reported automatic gunfire at midnight, followed by an explosion. The fire marshals found one body inside the study. Advanced burns, but dental records confirm it was a match for Julian’s original records.”
I closed my eyes for three long seconds. The confirmation hit me like a physical blow, but I didn't allow a single tear to fall. Mourning was a luxury for men who didn't have enemies surrounding their gates.
“What about the shooter?” I asked.
“The tactical gear we pulled off Leo Vane’s men in the alley wasn't purchased on the black market,” Thomas said, lowering his voice even further. “The serial numbers on their body armor match a shipment that was requisitioned three months ago by our own logistics division.”
My eyes snapped open. Cold, absolute rage flared in my chest.
“Our logistics division,” I repeated softly. “Which means the Red Crown isn't an outside competitor. They’re a proxy army funded by someone inside my own council.”
“Yes,” Thomas said nervously. “And there are only three people in the organization who have authorization to clear logistics requisitions of that size.”
I stood up from the chair. The heavy leather creaked under my weight.
The three men who held that level of authority were my oldest capos: Marcus, who ran the docks; Vane, who controlled the casinos; and Silas, my personal consigliere, who had sat at my father’s right hand thirty years ago.
One of them had ordered my brother’s house burned. One of them had sent a hit squad to murder a eight-year-old girl in an alley.
I looked back at Maya. She had rolled over in her sleep, her small hand reaching out instinctively until her fingers brushed against Bear’s soft fur. The dog opened one brown eye, looked at her, and gently rested his snout over her arm.
“Thomas,” I said, my voice dropping into a register that made the big man take a step back.
“Yes, Dante?”
“Call a full council meeting for tomorrow night at the Grand Casino,” I ordered. “Tell Marcus, Vane, and Silas that I’m calling a blood tribunal to address the Red Crown problem.”
“And what about the girl?”
May you like
I walked over to the bed, reached down, and gently pulled the warm duvet up over Maya’s shoulders.
“She stays in this room under a four-man guard,” I said. “And tomorrow night, this city is going to remember why they spent twenty years fearing my name.”
