Chapter 7
The bright, cinematic afternoon sun began to dip, casting long, sharp shadows across the estate grounds, though the interior of the recovery wing remained flawlessly lit. The cleanup crew had come and gone in total silence, removing the broken equipment and scrubbing the blood from the tiles. Angelo had refused to leave the room, opting to remain in his wheelchair near the massive windows, his mind calculating the inevitable fallout of his actions.
"Boss," Vincent called out softly, stepping into the room. The lead bodyguard looked tense, his professional dark suit immaculately pressed. "The perimeter is on full lockdown. Dominic was dropped at the city limits, and your aunt is currently en route to the northern compound. But we have a situation."
"Speak," Angelo commanded, his voice returning to its low, measured, and dangerous rhythm.
"Dominic didn't go quietly," Vincent reported, his American accent grim. "Before we confiscated his phone, he managed to send an encrypted message to the capos operating in the eastern district. He told them you had lost your mind, that you were violently purging the family over a maid. He called for a vote of no confidence."
Angelo let out a slow, dark chuckle that contained absolutely zero humor. "He believes... he has the loyalty of the eastern capos."
"He holds their purse strings, Angelo," Vincent warned, stepping closer. "He's been funneling extra cash to them for the last three months while you were in recovery. They are loyal to the money, not the bloodline. If they rally behind him, they could launch a coordinated strike against the estate by nightfall. We are heavily outnumbered."
"We are not outnumbered... if we control the board," Angelo murmured, his sharp eyes narrowing as he looked out over the manicured lawns. He slowly turned his custom wheelchair to face his lieutenant. "Open the armory, Vincent. Issue heavy weapons to the inner circle. Anyone who is not willing to die for this house is free to leave right now."
"No one is leaving, Boss," Vincent said, a fierce loyalty blazing in his eyes. "We stand with you."
"Then prepare for a siege," Angelo ordered. "And Vincent... bring Emma and the boy to my private suite in the west wing. The recovery room is too exposed. I want them secured behind the blast doors."
"Right away, sir."
As Vincent hurried out to execute the orders, Angelo looked down at his paralyzed legs. For a brief, agonizing second, a wave of profound vulnerability washed over him. In the old days, he would have led the charge himself, a physical force of nature destroying his enemies on the front lines. Now, he was confined to a chair, forced to command the war from a static position.
But as he looked at his heavily tattooed hands and felt the immense, coiled power of his upper body, the vulnerability vanished. He was not a pair of legs. He was a terrifying intellect, a ruthless tactician, and the undisputed king of the syndicate.
The heavy doors opened again, and Emma stepped inside, holding a sleeping Noah in her arms. Her fair, rosy face was pale with fear.
May you like
"Mr. Castellano, Vincent said we need to move," Emma whispered, her voice shaking. "Are they coming for us?"
"They are coming for me, Emma," Angelo said softly, propelling his wheelchair forward until he was right beside her. He reached out and gently touched the sleeping child's hair. "But as long as I draw breath, the fires of this war will never touch you or your son. Come with me."
