Chapter 7 - The Ghost of the Past
The peace in the Costa household was a fragile illusion, shattered by a phone call on a crisp Tuesday morning.
Vincenzo was in his study when his underboss, Marco, delivered the grim news.
The Falcone family wasn't entirely destroyed; a distant cousin had taken the reins and wanted blood for blood.
They had discovered the location of the coastal stronghold.
"They're planning a siege, Boss," Marco warned, pacing the length of the Persian rug. "We need to move the boy."
Vincenzo's jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached.
Running felt like cowardice, but Dante's safety was the only thing that mattered.
He immediately strode out of the study and took the stairs two at a time to the third floor.
He found Clara in the playroom, sitting on a soft mat as Dante batted at a hanging mobile.
"Pack a bag," Vincenzo ordered abruptly, his tone sharp and commanding.
Clara flinched, looking up at him with sudden panic in her eyes.
"Are you kicking me out?" she asked, her voice cracking as she instinctively pulled Dante into her arms.
Vincenzo's expression softened instantly, realizing how his harsh tone had sounded.
He dropped to one knee beside them, reaching out to gently cup Clara's cheek.
"Never," he swore, his thumb brushing a stray tear from her skin.
"There is a threat to the estate. We are moving to a secure penthouse in Manhattan."
He looked deeply into her eyes, making sure she understood the weight of his words.
"You go where he goes, Clara. You go where I go."
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Relief washed over her, followed quickly by the terrifying realization of what living with a mafia boss truly meant.
She nodded bravely, holding Dante tighter as the heavy machinery of the syndicate began to mobilize outside.
