Chapter 4
The silence that followed the catastrophic crash was absolute, save for the pathetic, wet coughing coming from Dominic amidst the scattered medicine balls. The bright, natural colors of the therapy equipment created a surreal, almost cheerful backdrop to the brutal violence that had just taken place. Emma squeezed her eyes shut, pressing Noah’s face into her shoulder, her fair skin trembling uncontrollably.
"Dominic!" a shrill, panicked voice shrieked from the hallway.
Helena Castellano, Angelo’s sixty-six-year-old aunt, rushed into the bright recovery room. She was draped in a luxurious formal outfit, heavy pearl jewelry swinging wildly against her chest as she took in the scene. Her rosy cheeks drained of all color as she saw her favored nephew bleeding on the floor.
"You animal!" Helena screamed, her American accent cracking with pure hysteria. She glared at Angelo, sitting perfectly still in his wheelchair. "You crippled, miserable bastard! What have you done to him?"
"I reminded him... who runs this syndicate," Angelo replied. His voice was a low, terrifying whisper that sliced through the chaos. "And I suggest... you hold your tongue, Helena."
But Helena, blinded by her aristocratic entitlement and furious rage, refused to back down. She looked around the room, her eyes landing on the terrified maid and the three-year-old child shivering in the corner. In her twisted mind, they were the cause of her nephew's downfall.
"This is your fault, you filthy little tramp!" Helena hissed, stepping aggressively toward Emma.
Before the bodyguards could intercept her, Helena reached out with her manicured, pearl-ringed hands and violently grabbed Noah by the arm, trying to tear the boy away from his mother.
"No! Please don't touch him!" Emma cried out, dropping to her knees and desperately trying to pry the older woman's hands off her son.
Angelo’s sharply defined jawline locked into a mask of pure stone. He propelled his wheelchair forward with one massive thrust of his heavily tattooed hands, closing the distance in a fraction of a second.
He reached out and caught Helena’s wrist. With a brutal, effortless twist, Angelo completely tore her hand away from the screaming child.
"How dare you touch me!" Helena yelled, raising her free hand to strike him.
Angelo didn't hesitate. He delivered one thunderous, devastating open-handed slap directly across Helena’s powdered face.
The impact was catastrophic. The sixty-six-year-old matriarch spun violently backward, her high heels skidding across the polished floor. She flew out of control, hurtling directly into the rolling blanket-and-supply cart stationed near the door.
The heavy metal cart rocketed sideways upon impact and violently overturned. A massive payload of folded blankets exploded across the floor like a soft avalanche. Empty plastic storage baskets tumbled free, clattering loudly against the tiles. Crisp, white towels scattered in every direction around her heels as Helena dropped heavily beside the collapsed cart.
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She lay on the floor, clutching her rapidly swelling, bright red cheek, staring up at her nephew in absolute, unadulterated terror. The untouchable matriarch of the family had been physically dismantled in seconds.
Angelo did not look at her. He slowly turned his wheelchair back around, his cold, intimidating eyes locking onto Dominic, who was struggling to push himself up from the ruined exercise mats.
