Chapter 3
The tension in the brightly lit dining hall escalated into a suffocating, physical weight. The elite Mafia guests and the white American bodyguards stationed along the walls remained perfectly motionless, their eyes locked on the unfolding confrontation. The bright, cinematic lighting offered no shadows for Adrian to hide his fatal mistake.
Before Vincent could demand further explanation, the rhythmic clicking of high heels broke the silence.
Helena Bellacorte, Vincent’s sixty-one-year-old aunt and a highly influential senior Mafia-family member, stepped forward from the periphery of the table. She was dressed in an elegant, sweeping formal outfit. Heavy diamond jewelry sparkled at her throat, and expensive rings flashed on her manicured fingers. Her fair, rosy face was set in a mask of cold, aristocratic arrogance.
"You are overreacting, Vincent," Helena stated, her crisp American accent dripping with condescension.
She walked directly toward the towering Mafia boss. Completely disregarding the lethal, deeply masculine aura radiating from her nephew, Helena reached past Vincent. Her hand shot out with startling speed. She instantly grabbed Eli’s small wrist, forcefully pulling the weeping three-year-old out from the safety of his father's legs and dragging him toward Maria again.
"Aunt Helena, let him go!" Maria cried out, taking a brave but foolish step forward.
"Silence, you little tramp," Helena snapped, her eyes flashing with venom.
Helena leaned down, her expensive jewelry clinking together. She yanked Eli’s arm, forcing the boy to look at the weeping housekeeper.
"Then say she frightened you," Helena hissed, her voice a cruel, jagged blade. "Tell your father that she scared you in the dark, Eli. Tell him right now, or you will be severely punished."
Eli let out a terrified shriek, frantically trying to pull his arm free from the elderly woman's crushing grip. "No! I want my Dad!"
Vincent’s expression turned completely still.
It was not the stillness of shock, but the absolute, frozen calm of a veteran warlord realizing his inner circle was entirely compromised. The handsome, rugged face became an unreadable mask of stone. The muscles in his sharply defined jawline ticked visibly beneath his fair skin. The absolute audacity of his own bloodline—his cousin and his aunt—openly conspiring to manipulate and terrorize the sole heir of the Bellacorte empire was a treason that demanded an apocalyptic response.
"Let him go," Vincent whispered. The volume of his voice was terrifyingly low, yet it vibrated with a dangerous, lethal promise that reached every corner of the massive room.
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"He needs to learn respect for his elders, Vincent!" Helena argued, tightening her grip on the boy. "You spoil him! You treat the hired help better than your own blood!"
"I said," Vincent repeated, his eyes devoid of any human mercy, "let him go."
