Chapter 3 - Buried Alive in the Blizzard—The Don Unleashes Hell
The sub-zero gale screamed into the hallway, instantly extinguishing several wall sconces and sending a flurry of white snow swirling across the polished marble. Dante rushed to secure the door, shouting over the wind, "Boss, you can't go out there in a suit! You'll freeze in twenty minutes! Let the search teams—"
"Get the snowcats," Luca snarled, his voice cutting through the storm with absolute authority. "And get Valentina and Don Silvio into the master drawing room. Do not let them leave the estate. If any one of them moves an inch, shoot them in the legs."
Without waiting for Dante’s reply, Luca ripped off his suit jacket, tossed it onto a nearby table, and stepped out onto the ice-covered loading dock bare-chested under his fine linen shirt. The biting arctic wind hit him like a wall of solid ice, but he didn't feel the cold. He only felt the burning, suffocating terror of losing the one fragile light he had secretly allowed into his dark world.
He dropped to his knees in the drifts, his bare hands clawing through the deep, powdery snow outside the service exit. Footprints had already been half-erased by the gale, but a faint trail of disturbed powder led away from the dock toward the eastern gardens, toward the stone fountain.
"Parker!" he roared into the wind. "Parker!"
The storm swallowed his voice, turning it into a pathetic whisper against the howling monster of the blizzard. He pushed forward through hip-deep drifts, ignoring the frost biting into his skin, his mind flashing back to every stolen glance, every quiet word, every time he had watched her from his study window without having the courage to bridge the distance.
Ten yards from the ice-choked marble fountain, a dark shape caught his eye beneath a massive drift of white.
Luca lunged forward, falling hard onto the ice, and began digging frantically with his bare, bleeding hands. A moment later, his fingers brushed against cold, stiff fabric.
He hauled her upward, pulling her limp, frozen body against his chest.
Ella’s skin was the color of skim milk, translucent and deathly pale. Her lips were tinted blue, her eyelashes frosted with ice, and her breathing was so faint it was barely perceptible. The thin cotton uniform was soaked through and frozen solid against her shivering frame.
"Parker. Ella. Look at me," Luca commanded, his voice cracking—a sound no man in the syndicate had ever heard from the invincible Ferretti don.
He scooped her up into his arms, his powerful muscles straining against the wind as he carried her back toward the glowing warmth of the estate.
Back inside the service hallway, Dante was waiting with three frantic medics and a stack of heavy wool blankets. When Dante saw the girl in his boss's arms—lifeless, battered, and freezing—he drew his weapon and instinctively backed toward the drawing room doors.
"Get the blankets! Hot water! Saline IVs! Now!" Luca bellowed, carrying her directly into his private study upstairs, laying her gently down on the leather sofa before the roaring fireplace.
He stripped off her frozen dress with frantic, trembling hands, wrapping her in five layers of dry wool, pressing his own body heat against hers, chafing her icy hands until friction finally brought a faint, agonizing groan from her lips.
"Luca..." she whispered, her eyes fluttering open just a fraction, recognizing the dark, storm-tossed ocean eyes staring down at her with unfiltered adoration and murderous rage. "It was... Valentina... she said I stole..."
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"Shh. Don't speak," Luca murmured, pressing a fierce, trembling kiss against her icy forehead. Then, he stood up.
The coldness that returned to his eyes was no longer the chill of winter; it was the absolute, hollow void of an executioner.
