Chapter 8
The bodyguards dragged the screaming, hysterical Bernadette out of the bright, cinematic gallery. Two more men hauled the unconscious, bleeding Marcus out of the ruined model-railway exhibit, his expensive suit dragging across the plush carpet. Their desperate cries echoed down the long marble corridors of the museum, fading into a distant, pathetic wail before the heavy oak doors finally sealed shut.
Luciano stood alone in the center of the wreckage. The vintage canvas mail sacks, the broken tracks, and the scattered foam trees painted a chaotic picture of the rebellion he had just violently crushed.
He slowly adjusted the cuffs of his crisp dress shirt. He took a deep breath, forcing the lethal, violent adrenaline back down into the dark corners of his mind. He turned his attention back to the capos who were still frozen in terror.
"The gala is concluded," Luciano announced, his deep voice leaving no room for argument. "Clear the room. Anyone who speaks of what occurred here today to the other families will answer directly to me."
The guests, members of allied families and wealthy associates, didn't need to be told twice. A mass, hurried exodus began. The clinking of glasses ceased entirely as the elite society fled the gallery, desperate to escape the wrath of the Mafia boss.
Once the room was cleared of civilians, leaving only Luciano’s most loyal lieutenants and bodyguards, the true business began.
"Boss," Silvio said quietly, stepping forward again, his American accent tight with fear. "Marcus had access to the offshore accounts. If he planned this coup, he might have transferred funds to secure mercenary backing. We need to lock down the routing numbers immediately."
"Do it," Luciano commanded. "And run a full audit on his communications. I want to know every single person he spoke to in the last six months. If he bought a politician, a judge, or a cop, I want their names on my desk by morning."
"Understood," Silvio nodded rapidly, desperate to prove his renewed loyalty.
Luciano turned away, walking slowly toward the grand entrance. The heavy, intimidating presence of the Mafia boss seemed to soften only slightly as he navigated the long, brilliantly lit corridors of the museum, heading toward the private administrative wing.
He opened the heavy mahogany doors to his private office. The room was bathed in soft, warm lighting. Maria, the trusted nanny, was sitting on a plush leather sofa, reading a book to Theo. The little boy was curled up against her, clutching his wooden locomotive tightly.
When the door clicked, Theo looked up. His bright blue eyes widened, and he scrambled off the sofa, running across the carpet.
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"Daddy!" Theo cheered, throwing his arms around Luciano’s legs.
Luciano dropped to one knee, ignoring the crease in his tailored trousers. He caught his son in a fierce, protective embrace, burying his face in the boy's soft hair. The cold, lethal executioner vanished entirely, replaced by a father whose only priority was the safety of his blood.
