Chapter 12 - Shadows in the Snow
The victory celebration lasted through the evening, but in the mafia, peace is never a permanent state; it is merely an intermission between massacres.
By December 28th, the festive mood had evaporated.
Two federal prosecutors from the Southern District of New York had arrived in Philadelphia, working out of a fortified floor in the Federal Building. At the same time, intelligence coming in from Dante’s street contacts confirmed what we all feared: the assault on Ravenwood had not been an isolated move by the Moretti family.
The Morettis had formed an alliance.
The Russian Bratva operating out of Brighton Beach, led by a ruthless oligarch named Viktor Ruslan, had bankrolled the assault. Ruslan wanted Roman’s deep-water ports along the Delaware River to funnel untraceable shipping containers into the mid-Atlantic.
Roman had spent forty-eight hours straight locked in his study with Vincent and his top accountants, tracking the financial networks funding the war.
I walked into the study at 11:00 PM without knocking, carrying a tray containing two bowls of hearty beef and barley stew, dark rye bread, and a pot of black coffee.
“Out, Maggie,” Vincent snapped without looking up from a spread of satellite photographs. “We’re in the middle of a tactical briefing.”
I set the heavy ceramic tray down directly on top of his satellite maps.
“Eat the stew, Vincent, before I use your head as a mop,” I said calmly. “You’ve been surviving on nicotine and amphetamines for two days. Your hands are shaking so badly you couldn't hit a barn from ten paces. Eat.”
Vincent glared at me, his jaw clenching—then his shoulders slumped. He grabbed a spoon and dug into the thick stew, letting out an involuntary groan of relief as the hot, rich broth hit his stomach.
Roman leaned back in his leather chair, watching me with amused exhaustion.
“You run this fortress better than I do, Maggie,” he murmured, rubbing his temples.
“Someone has to make sure the general doesn't starve before the battle,” I answered, sliding the second bowl in front of him. “What’s the situation, Roman? The boys in the kitchen are nervous. Marco has been cleaning his rifle three times a day.”
Roman picked up his spoon, taking a slow bite. His dark eyes darkened further.
“Ruslan has brought in contract killers from Eastern Europe. Ex-military. They don't care about mafia codes or non-combatants. They hit soft targets. Supply lines, warehouses, families.” He looked directly into my eyes. “Tomorrow, I am moving you and Walter to a safehouse in Maine.”
The room went dead silent.
I stood there, looking down at him. My hands rested firmly on my hips.
“No,” I said.
Vincent choked on his beef. “Maggie, you don't get a vote! This isn't about dirty dishes! These are Spetsnaz-trained assassins!”
“I said *no*,” I repeated, stepping around the desk until I was standing inches from Roman’s chair. “Walter is safe in South Philly under round-the-clock guard by your best men. But I am not going to Maine. I am not running away to hide in the woods like a scared rabbit while this house fights for its life.”
“Maggie,” Roman’s voice turned dangerously quiet, the voice he used when ordering executions. “This isn't a negotiation. You are a civilian. If something happens to you—”
“If you send me away, who cooks for your men?” I interrupted, my voice rising with unyielding steel. “Who cleans their wounds when Mercer is overwhelmed? Who keeps them calm when they’re sitting in the dark waiting for an attack? You think they fight hard because they love your money, Roman? They fight hard because for the first time in their miserable lives, they have a home to come back to. They have clean beds, warm food, and someone who treats them like human beings instead of rabid dogs.”
Roman stared at me, his spoon frozen halfway to his mouth.
“I’m not leaving Ravenwood, Roman Duca,” I whispered, leaning down until our faces were inches apart. “You gave me my dignity back. You saved Walter. If this house goes down, I go down with it. Now finish your stew.”
For a long moment, the only sound in the grand library was the crackle of the fireplace.
Vincent looked between the two of us like he was watching two apex predators circling the same kill.
Finally, Roman set his spoon down. A slow, terrifying, beautiful smile spread across his face—the smile of a king who had finally found his queen.
“Vincent,” Roman said without taking his eyes off me.
“Yes, Boss?”
May you like
“Call the armory. Issue Miss Sullivan a compact Sig Sauer. And have Bruno teach her how to double-tap at fifteen yards before lunch tomorrow.”
***