Chapter 176: Blood of my blood

Chapter 176: Blood of my blood
Solomon stood before the scarred wooden door of the safehouse apartment, the grime of travel still clinging to his coat. He raised a hand and knocked, the sound echoing hollowly in the hallway. He half-expected to be met with a gun in his face, given the tension of the last few days, but instead, the door swung open to reveal Catherine.
She was smiling.
"Finally! Just in time," she said, ushering him in. "Dinner is ready."
Solomon stepped inside, blinking against the warm light. The scent of food—mingled with the faint, tell-tale aroma of takeout containers—filled the small space. It was dinner time, indeed. Kieran was seated at the small, wobbly table, with Chiara happily perched on his lap, babbling about her day. Catherine moved back to the kitchenette, stirring something in a pot that looked suspiciously like canned soup to supplement the spread.
The atmosphere was disarming. It was lovely.
Solomon looked at Kieran. The man who had been a ghost, a prisoner, a ruthless don, looked… relaxed. Happy, even. There was a softness around his eyes as he listened to his daughter that made him look less like a drug lord in the middle of a bloody street war and more like a simple family man.
"I need to talk to you," Solomon said, his voice grave.
"It can wait," Kieran dismissed him without looking up, stealing a fry from Chiara’s plate. "Grab a chair. There’s wine and food, although most of it is takeout because Catherine can't cook for shit."
"Hey!" Catherine scolded, turning around with a playful glare. She pointed the ladle at him. "Don't use that word near your daughter. And it is not my fault I always had someone to cook for me."
"Not always," Kieran countered, a smirk playing on his lips. "Remember when you abandoned me for your little 'exchange program' in Europe?"
Catherine rolled her eyes, placing the pot on the table. "Well, I can cook baby food and enough for me not to starve. It doesn't mean I enjoy the final product. Or the process."
"There she is," Kieran teased, his eyes twinkling. "My mafia princess."
"Solomon, on the other hand, is a great cook," Catherine said, serving herself. "He taught me most of what I know while we were in England."
"I know.” Kieran snorted. “Why do you think Laura dumped me for his ass?"
"Language, Kieran!" Catherine scolded again, though she was smiling.
Solomon stood frozen for a moment, watching them. A small, sad smile touched his lips. He remembered how much Laura was fond of Catherine; she would have enjoyed being here, in this strange, stolen moment of peace. He remembered, too, a conversation from years ago, Laura telling him how he and Kieran looked alike. Not just physically, she had said, but mentally. You seem to think alike, move alike... You could've been brothers in a past life.
He sat down, the wood creaking under his weight. As he looked at Kieran across the table, the truth settled in his gut like a stone. It wasn't another life. It was this one. All along, it was this one.
He looked at Chiara, her dark curls bouncing as she chewed, and his heart ached. She was, by all definitions, blood of his blood. His niece. A part of him. Kieran wasn't just his boss, or his friend. He was his brother. His actual brother. All this time, they had bonded over the violence, the shared trauma of working for the mafia, drawn together by a gravity neither understood.
Then, his gaze shifted to Catherine. As much as he had consciously pushed the feeling down years ago, burying it under duty and loyalty, his heart refused to see her as merely his sister-in-law. The love he felt for her could never be purely fraternal. But watching them now, seeing the unit they formed, he knew he would make it be. He had to.
Sitting at that table, amidst the takeout boxes and cheap wine, Solomon saw his family. A family he would protect at all costs. A family he would die for.
"So," Catherine asked, breaking his reverie. "How was your visit to your father?"
Solomon took a sip of wine, masking the tremor in his hand. "It was nice."



Later, the apartment was quiet. Chiara was asleep in the back room, and the sound of the shower running indicated Catherine was occupied. Kieran and Solomon sat in the living room, nursing glasses of whiskey.
"Explain to me," Kieran said, breaking the silence, his voice low but sharp. "What possessed you to fly to Europe in a moment like this to talk to your father? Couldn't you text?"
"It was important," Solomon said, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. "And it wasn't about me. It was about you."
Kieran frowned, the glass halting halfway to his mouth. "How?"
"Allegra Valente contacted me."
The air in the room shifted instantly. Kieran’s face hardened, the relaxed father vanishing, replaced by the killer. "Where is she?"
"I don't know," Solomon replied calmly. "She is in a hospital, but I don't know which one, or if she is still there."
"You should've told me, Solomon," Kieran snarled, standing up. "You know I want her dead."
"She is desperate, Kieran," Solomon said, not rising. "She just had her baby. A boy, apparently. And Gabo left her."
"She is probably under the FBI's custody at this point," Kieran dismissed, pacing the small rug.
"She can't snitch without incriminating herself."
"At this point, she knows she and that cursed baby of hers will be safer in prison," Kieran said, his voice dripping with venom. "She knows I'm coming for her."
"She asked me to plead for her life."
Kieran stopped pacing and turned to him, his eyes dead. "I'm gonna break your fucking teeth if you do."
"I won't," Solomon said quickly. "But she gave me something in her desperate attempt to get me to intercede for her..."
"What?" Kieran demanded.
"Information."
"Something about Gabo?"
"No," Solomon shook his head, his heart pounding against his ribs. "Something about you."
Kieran stared at him, confused and irritated. "What the fuck?"
Solomon took a breath. "Kieran, this is why I had to talk to my father. He..."
The sound of gunshots erupted from the street below, shattering the quiet night.
Both men went into alert mode instantly. Kieran moved to the window, staying low, drawing his gun in one fluid motion. He peered through the blinds.
A heavy, frantic knock pounded on the apartment door.
Kieran moved to it, pistol raised. "Who is it?"
"Boss! It's Jack!"
Kieran unlocked it and threw it open. Jack, panting and pale, stood there.
"Boss, they're looking for you."
"Of course they are," Kieran muttered, checking the magazine of his gun. "How many?"
"We counted five of those big black cars. They're surrounding the block."
"Fuck..." Kieran hissed. He turned to Solomon, his eyes wide with urgency. "Get Catherine and Chiara out of here. Use the fire exit."
Solomon was already moving towards the bedroom. "Where do I take them?"
"Try to sneak them into one of the buildings they already searched," Kieran ordered, moving to the door to cover the hallway. "I'll handle this."
"Understood."
Kieran grabbed his arm as he passed, his grip like iron. He looked Solomon dead in the eye, a desperate intensity burning in his gaze.
"Keep them safe."
Solomon nodded, "I will."