Chapter 3 - The Wolves at the Gate
Word in the underworld travels faster than wildfire. By the end of the week, every high-ranking criminal syndicate, corrupt politician, and ambitious rival boss from Manhattan to Boston knew that Salvatore Constantino—the reclusive, untouchable billionaire kingpin who hadn't looked twice at a woman in over two decades—had spent nearly half a million dollars paying off the medical debts of an unknown, twenty-six-year-old waitress.
To the criminal elite, a weakness was an invitation.
I was working my morning shift at the bakery downtown when the glass front door swung open with a loud, aggressive crash. Three men walked in. They didn't look like customers. They wore expensive, flashily tailored suits, slicked-back hair, and carried themselves with the arrogant swagger of men who believed they owned the streets.
The leader was a younger man with sharp features and a permanent sneer—Marco Moretti Jr., son of the rival patriarch whose docks Salvatore had threatened a few days earlier.
The other customers in the bakery quickly grabbed their pastries and bolted out the door, terrified of being caught in the crossfire.
Marco walked straight up to the counter, slamming both hands down on the glass display case.
"So you're the little stray dog Salvatore picked out of the gutter," Marco sneered, flashing a row of unnaturally white teeth. "Cute. But old men lose their grip when they start playing house with waitresses."
My heart hammered against my ribs, but years of surviving poverty and working grueling hospital shifts had taught me how to mask fear with cold defiance.
"The bakery is closed for cleaning," I said, wiping down the counter with a cloth. "If you want a croissant, try a grocery store."
Marco laughed, a sharp, grating sound. "You've got spirit. I'll give you that. But you clearly don't understand who you're dealing with. Constantino is a dinosaur. His empire is crumbling, and he thinks buying you a few months of hospital care makes him invincible. If you walk away from him right now and work for my family as an informant inside his estate... I’ll triple what he paid your mother."
I looked at him with quiet disgust. "You couldn't afford me."
Marco’s smile vanished. His eyes flashed with sudden rage, and he reached across the counter, grabbing the collar of my apron. "Listen to me, you ungrateful little—"
He didn't get to finish the sentence.
The heavy front door of the bakery opened with a gentle click.
A single man stepped inside. He wasn't wearing body armor, and he didn't draw a weapon. It was Salvatore’s primary enforcer, a towering, silent giant named Mateo. Behind him, through the large front windows, three black SUVs pulled up to the curb simultaneously.
Twelve men in dark suits stepped out, blanking the street from view, their presence so absolute that pedestrians cleared the sidewalk in seconds.
Mateo walked up behind Marco Moretti Jr. with terrifying, silent speed. He placed a massive, scarred hand directly on Marco’s shoulder.
Marco froze, the color draining instantly from his face as he recognized the enforcer.
"Mr. Constantino sends his regards," Mateo said in a voice like grinding stones. "And he asked me to remind you that touching what belongs to him is a very efficient way to shorten your family tree."
Marco swallowed hard, releasing my collar immediately. He forced a shaky laugh, trying to regain his composure. "It... it was just a misunderstanding, Mateo. We were just talking business."
"Then talk outside," Mateo replied, his grip tightening until Marco winced in pain.
As Mateo practically dragged Marco and his associates out into the street, the bell above the door jingled softly. Salvatore himself stood on the sidewalk outside, leaning against the door frame of his Maybach, watching the scene unfold with cool, unbothered detachment.
He caught my eye through the glass, gave a single, reassuring nod, and then got back into the car as his men dispersed into the afternoon traffic like smoke.
That evening, when I arrived at the Greenwich estate, I found Salvatore sitting in his private study, examining a leather-bound ledger.
I didn't wait for him to speak. "Your enemies are coming after me to get to you. I put a target on my back just by accepting your help."
Salvatore looked up slowly, closing the ledger. He stood up and walked over to where I stood near the doorway.
"Lily, listen to me very carefully," he said, his voice deep and absolute. "You didn't put a target on your back. You stepped into a fortress. The Moretti family thinks age makes a man weak. They will learn very soon that age only makes a wolf patient."
He reached out, his warm, calloused fingers gently brushing a stray lock of hair from my cheek.
"Are you afraid?" he asked quietly.
May you like
I looked up into those gray, unwavering eyes, realizing with a shock that despite all the danger, all the whispers, and all the madness... I wasn't afraid at all.
"No," I whispered. "I'm not."
