The Rocchetti Queen - Bree Porter Page 0,9

city grew closer and closer, the streets growing busier and the skyscrapers blocking my view.

Alessandro didn’t seem to notice as he leaned out the window and fired.

The sound resonated through the inside—and woke Dante up.

My son let a piercing wail, as pitched as the gunshot. Immediately, my breasts began to grow heavier.

This is not the time! I hissed to myself.

“It’s okay, baby!” I called back, swerving. “Shh, shh, it’s okay—Alessandro!”

Alessandro snapped back, just before a bullet pierced the air where he had been. He swore loudly before leaning out and aiming once more.

Screams from pedestrians began from outside, barely audible over the sound of my son crying.

Alessandro fired once again.

Suddenly, there was a screech of tires behind us, then the sound of metal clashing with metal.

“Got them!” Alessandro said.

I pressed my foot to the brake a little too enthusiastically, and we skidded for a second before the SUV stopped.

In the second of silence, I could suddenly feel my entire body. The pounding of my heart, the rushing of my blood, the constriction of my lungs. A scream, or a sob, was working its way up my throat—

Dante let out another wail.

“Are you okay?” Alessandro demanded. He grabbed both sides of my face, his hands smelling of gunpowder. “Sophia!”

“I’m fine. Go...go and see who it was. Before they get away.”

Alessandro didn’t move.

I pushed at him lightly. “Go. Now. Or it was all for naught.”

He kissed my forehead and checked on Dante before sliding out of the car and storming away.

I unbuckled Dante, holding him to my chest. He whined in my arms, unhappy and frightened. And from the smell of his diaper, he was also uncomfortable.

Outside the car, I could make out Alessandro whipping open the crashed car’s door and yanking out whoever was shooting at us. Blood coated half their face, their pale skin broken up by cuts and scrapes.

A roaring sound caught my attention and I spotted a familiar Range Rover speeding around the corner, almost taking out a row of parked cars.

Relief flushed through me. From the looks of it, Oscuro and Beppe were okay.

We were okay. My husband, my son, Polpetto, myself.

I buried my face into Dante’s bald head. His skin was soft and smelt of his baby oil.

Carefully, I slumped back into the passenger seat, gripping my son, and just held him. He relied on me for everything, from protection to nourishment. And for the first time, I wondered if I could actually give those things to him.

Should we have waited to bring a baby into this world? Not that Dante had been at all planned—in fact, lots of measures were taken to ensure he was never born

And yet, my son had come into the world. He had been born the same day Don Piero had died and at a week old, he had been in his first dangerous car chase.

I smoothed down his hair, kissing his little forehead. His cries had quieted, now his face was scrunched up in annoyance.

“It’s going to be okay, my baby,” I whispered. “Daddy and Mama are going to keep you safe.”

Polpetto poked his head from beneath the seat. He leaped up beside me, burying into my legs.

“Oh, my brave Polpetto,” I nearly laughed.

A few minutes passed and Alessandro called my name. He approached the passenger side, face dark. “Would you like to see them?” he asked.

I held Dante closer to me. “Yes.”

Alessandro nodded curtly. In the distance, I could hear sirens growing closer and closer, but my husband did not look concerned in the slightest. What were the Chicago PD going to do? This city belonged to the Rocchettis.

Oscuro and Beppe had pulled out both of the perpetrators, taking their guns and pushing them to the ground.

I glanced around the street. No one had taken their phones out or tried to approach. Most people had begun to disperse, with the exception of a curious few who kept their distance.

Neither of the men looked familiar. Both had similar pale features with pale, watery blue eyes and crooked noses—brothers, perhaps? Tattoos peeked out from under their dark clothing, pledging allegiance to their organisation.

Oscuro tossed Alessandro two wallets. “French names.”

Alessandro scanned the two driver’s licenses, his jaw tightening.

“Corsican Union?” I asked.

“So, it seems,” he confirmed, his dark eyes dancing to me.

Police cars began to arrive, the blue and red lights flashing over the crash scene. A few officers paused when they saw Alessandro and looked to their superior, unsure how to proceed.

“Let’s go,” Alessandro said to me, pocketing the wallets.

“Are we going