Chapter 2
The bright, vivid colors of the recovery room seemed to instantly freeze as the threat left Dominic’s mouth. The natural, cinematic light pouring through the windows caught the heavy luxury wristwatch and capo pin on Dominic's lapel as he stood over the terrified child.
Before Dominic’s raised hand could even come close to making contact, Noah reacted. The three-year-old boy instantly dropped to his knees, his fair, rosy face turning pale as he covered his head with both of his small hands. He crouched tightly against the large wheel of Angelo’s custom black wheelchair, making himself as small as possible in a deeply ingrained, defensive posture that spoke volumes of hidden trauma.
Angelo looked down at the boy cowering against his legs. His cold, intimidating eyes registered the child's absolute terror. The air in the room grew heavy and suffocating. The expression on the veteran Mafia boss's handsome face changed completely, shifting from passive brooding into a mask of pure, unadulterated executioner’s wrath.
"Dominic," Angelo said. His volume was terrifyingly low, keeping the controlled pauses between his words sharp and dangerous. "Step back from the boy."
"He's a nuisance, Angelo," Dominic argued, though his American accent wavered slightly under his cousin's dead-eyed stare. "You need rest, not some peasant child crawling all over your medical equipment."
Emma, terrified for her son, slowly pulled herself upright from where Dominic had shoved her. Her professional maid uniform, complete with a crisp apron, tights, and flats, trembled as she moved. Her fair skin was ashen, her chest heaving with panicked breaths.
"I’m sorry, Mr. Castellano," Emma whispered, her voice shaking violently as she reached out to gather her son into her arms. She kept her eyes glued to the floor, too frightened to look at either man. "We’ll leave right away. It won't happen again, I swear."
"Nobody is leaving," Angelo commanded softly, his gaze locked entirely on his cousin.
Dominic froze. The arrogant swagger of the acting capo faltered. He looked at Angelo, seeing the dangerous flex of the muscles in the paralyzed man's powerful upper body.
"You are overreacting, Angelo," Dominic scoffed, trying to regain his dominant posture in front of the silent bodyguards standing by the door. "I am just keeping the house in order while you recover. These servants need to know their place."
"Their place," Angelo murmured, his hands resting on the armrests of his wheelchair, his artistic tattoos stark against the black metal, "is under my protection. A protection you seem to have forgotten during your brief, temporary stint as acting capo."
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"I am running the streets for you!" Dominic shouted, his fair face flushing red with sudden, defensive anger. "I am keeping this family from falling apart while you sit in that chair! Don't you dare undermine me in front of the hired help!"
"You think... raising your hand to a three-year-old child... makes you a leader?" Angelo asked, his voice a lethal, vibrating hum. "It only proves exactly how weak you truly are."
