Chapter 3 - An Unlikely Haven in the Lion’s Den
Lorenzo stared at the flickering monitor with absolute ice in his veins.
The Rossi syndicate wasn't waiting for the morning flight. Vincent had played
both sides; he was allowing Chicago hitmen onto the property tonight to
eliminate any loyalist guards and stage a full-blown slaughter before sunrise.
"Mr. Falcone?" Beatrice’s voice broke the silence. She was looking at the
monitors, recognizing the heavy weapons the men in tactical vests were pulling
from the trunks of the vans. "Those aren't your men, are they?"
"No," Lorenzo said calmly. He pulled a roll of sterile gauze and antiseptic from
the medical cabinet. "Sit down, Beatrice."
She hesitated, looking at the luxurious leather armchair behind his private
underground desk. "I'll get blood on the upholstery—"
"Sit."
It wasn't an angry command, but an absolute one. Beatrice complied, lowering
herself into the wide chair.
Lorenzo knelt on one knee in front of her. The undisputed king of Miami's
underworld, a man who commanded hundreds of soldiers and owned half the shipping
lanes in South Florida, took the maid's injured, calloused hand into his own.
He poured the antiseptic over the wound. Beatrice winced, biting her lower lip,
but didn't make a sound.
"You're tougher than my capos," Lorenzo murmured, carefully wrapping the white
gauze around her palm and securing it with surgical tape. "Most of them cry like
babies when they get clipped."
"When you grow up where I did, you learn not to cry over a scrape," Beatrice
said softly, looking down at his dark head as he tended to her fingers.
Lorenzo looked up, his sharp amber eyes meeting hers. "Where did you grow up,
Beatrice?"
"Hialeah," she said, looking away slightly, self-conscious under his intense
scrutiny. "My father left when I was six. My mother worked double shifts at a
dry cleaner until her kidneys failed. I've worked since I was fourteen to pay
for my grandmother's memory care facility."
Lorenzo's hands lingered on hers, his thumb gently smoothing over the edge of
the bandage. "Why didn't you ever ask for a raise? You've worked here two years.
Isabella replaced three maids before you, but you stayed."
Beatrice swallowed hard. "Because Miss Isabella made it clear that nobody else
would hire a woman who looks like me for private estate staff. She told me I was
lucky to have a uniform that fit."
Lorenzo felt a surge of raw, murderous hatred toward his fiancée.
"Isabella is an empty shell wrapped in expensive silk," Lorenzo said, his voice
thick with unyielding conviction. "She has beauty on the surface and rot in her
soul. You, Beatrice, are worth ten of her."
Beatrice stared at him, her dark eyes filling with unshed tears. "You don't have
to say that, Mr. Falcone."
"I don't say things I don't mean," Lorenzo replied. He stood up, stepping
closer, towering over the chair. "And when this night is over, you will never
wear a maid's uniform again."
Before Beatrice could process his words, the master security alarm on the
console pulsed red.
The video feeds showed the Rossi hitmen breaching the ground-floor terrace
doors.
At the exact same moment, Lorenzo's satellite phone buzzed against his hip.
He answered. "Report."
"Boss," came the deep voice of Marco, the commander of his Fort Lauderdale
cleaners. "We have surrounded the perimeter. We count sixteen hostiles inside
the mansion, plus Vincent's personal security detail. How do you want to handle
this?"
Lorenzo looked at Beatrice, whose eyes were fixed on him with unwavering trust.
"Lethal force authorized on all hostiles," Lorenzo commanded. "Cut the power to
the main house. Leave the sub-cellar grid online. I'm coming up to take my
throne back."
May you like
He hung up, racked the slide of his Sig Sauer, and turned to Beatrice.
"Stay behind me," Lorenzo said. "It's time to show them what happens when you
betray a Falcone."
