Chapter 4 - The Halifax Fortress
An hour later, the Boeing 737 made a quiet, emergency landing at a private airfield surrounded by dense pine forests on the coast of Nova Scotia.
The moment the plane's tires touched the tarmac, three heavy, black armored SUVs tore across the runway, positioning themselves around the aircraft. Ten men in sleek tactical gear, holding assault rifles, emerged from the vehicles, securing the perimeter.
Leading them was Paul—my chief of security, my right-hand man, and the only person in New York who knew where every body was buried.
The cabin door hissed open. I carried Lila in my arms, wrapped securely in my heavy black wool coat to protect her from the freezing Canadian wind. Elena walked close beside me, clutching my arm instinctively as we descended the air stairs.
Paul stepped up, his tactical visor raised, his face displaying a rare look of profound shock as he looked at the child in my arms.
"Boss..." Paul gasped. "Is that...?"
"She's my daughter, Paul," I stated, my voice cutting through the freezing wind. "Get the hitman out of the rear galley. Put him in the basement of the estate. I want to know how Julian tracked them."
"Understood, Don Luca," Paul bowed his head immediately. "The estate is locked down. Thermal perimeter is active."
We climbed into the center armored SUV. Within minutes, the convoy was speeding down a private, paved road through the dark forest, arriving at the gates of the Moretti Northern Estate—a massive, modern mansion built of reinforced concrete, bulletproof glass, and steel, perched on a cliff overlooking the roaring Atlantic Ocean.
Inside, the mansion was warm, quiet, and grand.
Elena stood in the high-ceilinged foyer, looking around at the grand marble floors and expensive art, feeling completely out of place in her worn jacket and simple jeans.
"Mrs. Gable," I called out.
An elderly woman with a kind face and a crisp apron stepped out from the grand kitchen wing. When she saw me carrying a child, her eyes widened.
"Mr. Moretti?" she gasped.
"Prepare the master guest suite for Elena," I ordered gently. "And bring warm milk and fresh soup to the dining room."
"Right away, sir!" Mrs. Gable hurried off.
I walked over to the plush velvet sofa in the living room and carefully laid Lila down. She stirred, her eyelids fluttering open. She looked up at the high ceilings, then at the crackling fireplace, and finally at me.
"Where are we?" she asked, her voice thick with sleep. "Are we in London?"
"No, sweetie," I said, dropping to one knee beside the sofa, removing my heavy coat from her shoulders. "We are in Canada. At my home."
Lila sat up, looking around. She looked at Elena, who was standing nearby, tears still glistening in her eyes. Then Lila looked back at me, reaching out her tiny hand to touch the lapel of my suit.
"Why did that bad man try to hurt us on the plane?" she asked innocently.
I looked at Elena, then back at my daughter. The time for lies was over.
"Because he works for a bad man who doesn't want me to have a family," I explained softly. "But he made a mistake."
"What mistake?" Lila tilted her head.
"He didn't know that I am your father," I said, the words spilling from my heart with an overwhelming weight of pride and protection. "And a father never lets anyone hurt his little girl."
Lila went completely still. She stared at me, her big gray eyes wide. She reached into her yellow cardigan pocket, pulled out her small notebook, and opened it to the crayon drawing of the three people.
She looked at the drawing, then looked at my face, tracing the lines of my jaw with her eyes.
"You're... my dad?" she whispered.
"I am," I said, my voice cracking. "I'm sorry it took me six years to find you, Lila. But I am here now."
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Lila didn't cry. Instead, a bright, beautiful smile spread across her face. She threw her small arms around my neck, burying her face into my shoulder.
I wrapped my arms around her small body, pulling her tight against my chest, closing my eyes as six years of ice, dark rage, and cold loneliness melted away into the warm air of the room.
