Chapter 8 - The Safehouse
They arrived in Manhattan under the cover of the morning fog. Damiano led them to a penthouse in Tribeca—a property listed under a shell corporation that even Renato didn't know about.
Once the triple-reinforced steel doors locked behind them, Clara collapsed onto the velvet sofa, pulling Elara into her lap. The little girl finally began to cry, the adrenaline wearing off.
Damiano went to the wet bar, poured iodine over his grazed shoulder without flinching, and bandaged it tight. He walked over to them, kneeling before the sofa.
"You're safe here," he said softly, handing Elara a glass of water.
"For how long?" Clara asked, her voice shaking. "Renato has the estate. He has your men. He will go to the Commission and tell them you went mad, that you killed your own guards."
"Let him," Damiano said, his eyes darkening into voids of pure menace. "Renato thinks like a middle manager. He thinks whoever holds the desk holds the power. He forgot what I am."
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"What are you going to do?"
"I'm going to remind the Five Families why my father was feared, and why I am worse."
