Chapter 2 - The Return of the Beast
The convoy arrived at three in the morning like a storm of black steel and roaring engines.
Six armored Cadillac Escalades tore through the shattered wrought-iron gates of the Costello estate. Tires threw gravel across lawns littered with brass shell casings and dead men.
Damian Costello stepped out of the lead vehicle before it had even fully stopped.
He wore an Italian wool coat over a tailored charcoal suit, but there was nothing civilized about the expression on his face. His eyes—pale, predatory gray—scanned the blackened skeleton of his ancestral home. Half the east wing had collapsed into a glowing pyre. Fire crews, flanked by Damian’s heavily armed soldiers, were still dousing the smoking embers.
Briggs, his head bandaged and uniform soaked in mud, dropped to his knees before his Don.
"Boss," Briggs croaked, trembling. "We were ambushed... the Moretti family. They hit the perimeter with military-grade explosives."
Damian didn't look at him. His gaze remained fixed on the hollow, fire-gutted windows of the second floor. "Where are my sons, Briggs?"
The silence that followed was heavier than death.
"Mrs. Costello made it to the harbor boat," Briggs stammered, his voice breaking. "She ordered me to escort her. I... I couldn't reach the nursery in time, boss. The entire east hall was an inferno. The boys... the cribs were gone before the roof fell."
Damian’s hand moved faster than thought.
The cold steel of a customized Kimber .45 pressed against Briggs’ forehead. Damian didn't shout. He didn't roar. When Damian Costello was at his most lethal, his voice dropped to a terrifying, quiet gravel.
"You brought my wife to safety," Damian whispered, "and left my blood to burn?"
"She commanded—she said they were already dead—"
"A dog protects the master’s blood or dies with it," Damian said softly. He pulled back the hammer.
"Wait!"
The cry came from the edge of the woods.
Damian’s men raised automatic rifles instantly, laser sights cutting red lines through the drifting smoke and rain. Damian’s finger paused on the trigger.
Stumbling out of the drenched undergrowth was a girl. Her clothes were torn to ribbons, her hands caked in dried blood and black soot. Her bare feet left red prints on the wet gravel.
Strapped securely to her chest beneath a shredded maid’s apron was Oliver, his chubby cheeks smudged with ash, fast asleep against her collarbone. Tucked inside her torn sweater, sheltered beneath her chin, was Owen, wide awake and clutching the fabric of her torn blouse.
Clara collapsed to her knees under the glare of the vehicle headlights, ten yards away from Damian.
"They're alive," she gasped, her voice raw from smoke and exhaustion. "They're cold... Mr. Costello... they need milk. Please."
Damian let the Kimber lower to his side. The dead, terrifying stillness in his chest shattered, replaced by a shock so profound his breath caught in his throat.
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He walked past Briggs as if the man were a ghost. He crossed the gravel, knelt down in the mud in his bespoke suit, and looked into the face of the young woman who had just dragged his legacy out of hell.
***
