Chapter 6
The silence that returned to the recovery wing was profound, broken only by the soft, residual sniffling of the little boy. The bright, neutral white lighting illuminated the scattered therapy blocks, the overturned cart, and the bloodstain on the pristine floor. Angelo sat perfectly still in his wheelchair, taking a slow, deep breath to rein in the explosive adrenaline that had surged through his powerful upper body.
He slowly turned his wheelchair around to face the corner of the room.
Emma Brooks was still kneeling on the floor, her arms wrapped protectively around Noah. Her professional maid uniform was ruffled, the white apron twisted around her waist. She looked up at him, her beautiful, fair face pale with a mixture of overwhelming awe and lingering terror.
"Are you hurt, Emma?" Angelo asked. The terrifying, cold cadence of the Mafia Boss vanished entirely, replaced by a deep, resonant warmth that he rarely exposed to anyone.
"N-no, sir," Emma stammered, her American accent trembling as she gently pushed a strand of hair behind her ear. "We are fine. Thank you. Thank you for stopping them."
"You do not need to thank me for protecting you in my own house," Angelo murmured, wheeling himself closer. He stopped a few feet away, ensuring he didn't crowd them. He looked down at the three-year-old boy. "Noah. Come here."
Noah peeked out from behind his mother’s arm. His rosy cheeks were stained with tears, but his bright eyes locked onto the handsome man in the chair. Hesitantly, the little boy let go of his mother and took a few cautious steps forward, his sneakers squeaking softly on the tiles.
Angelo reached out with his large, tattooed hand. He didn't pull the boy; he simply offered his open palm. Noah reached out and placed his tiny hand into Angelo’s massive one.
"I dropped your water, Mr. Angelo," Noah whispered sadly, looking at the spilled puddle near the wheelchair.
"That's okay, little man," Angelo smiled, a rare, genuinely charming expression that transformed his rugged face. "I wasn't very thirsty anyway. You were very brave today. You protected your mom."
"The mean man yelled," Noah said, leaning his small body against the large wheel of the chair.
"The mean man is gone. He is never coming back," Angelo promised, his voice carrying the weight of an unbreakable vow. He looked up at Emma, who had slowly risen to her feet. "How long has Dominic been treating the staff this way?"
Emma swallowed hard, her eyes darting toward the locked door before returning to his face. "Since your accident, sir. When you were in the coma, he took over the daily operations of the estate. He told everyone that you were never going to wake up, and that he was the new Boss. He... he fired anyone who questioned him."
Angelo’s sharply defined jawline clenched. The artistic tattoos on his hands flexed as he gripped the armrests of his chair. He had suspected a power vacuum, but he hadn't realized the sheer depth of the rot that had infected his home while he was fighting for his life in a hospital bed.
"And my aunt?" Angelo asked quietly.
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"She encouraged it," Emma whispered, crossing her arms over her chest. "She said the old ways needed to be reinstated. That the servants needed to be broken so they wouldn't steal. She made us work twenty-hour shifts. If we complained, she threatened to hand us over to Dominic's street enforcers."
"I see," Angelo said, his eyes turning cold and sharp once more. The purge he had just initiated wasn't a moment of anger; it was a desperately needed surgery to save his empire.
