Chapter 2
Marcella remained on her knees amid the pool of pale wine and broken glass, the hem of her designer gown drinking in the puddle. The rosy flush that had colored her cheeks during the ceremony had completely drained, leaving behind a sallow, sickly pallor. Behind her, the fifty guests remained frozen in their seats, their hands hovering over silver forks and crystal stems, terrified that the slightest movement would draw the Don’s gaze.
"Nico, listen to me," Marcella stammered, her voice trembling as she looked up at him. "Julianna was out of her mind before she died. You know how sick she was. She was paranoid. She was writing down hallucinations."
Nico did not answer immediately. He unfolded the yellowed paper with methodical care. His thumb brushed the neat, looping script—the unmistakable hand of his late wife.
He read the first two lines silently, his defined jawline clenching until a muscle jumped beneath his trimmed beard.
"Rafe," Nico said softly, never taking his eyes off the paper.
"Yes, Boss," the security chief answered, his hand still buried inside his lapel.
"Clear the civilian guests," Nico instructed, his raspy baritone slicing through the cavernous room. "Escort our cousins to the south terrace. Take their phones. If anyone attempts to send a transmission outside the estate gates, put a bullet through their hand."
"Understood, Don Bellandi," Rafe replied, gesturing with two fingers to the four guards stationed along the colonnade.
A sudden murmur of panic broke out among the tables. An older capo in a silver waistcoat stood up, his face tight with nervous agitation. "Nico, this is family business, but it's Marcella's wedding day. The Morello envoys are arriving at five. We can't lock down the estate without an explanation."
Nico slowly raised his eyes from the note. He looked at the capo with an unblinking, predatory calm that suffocated the room.
"Sit down, Uncle Silvio," Nico murmured, the pause between his words deliberate and chilling. "Or you can leave through the basement in a pine box."
Silvio sank back into his velvet chair without another word.
Nico lowered his gaze back to Marcella. He read aloud, his voice steady, dropping like lead into the frozen hall: "'If you are reading this, Nico, it means Marcella finally found a way to take Vivia from me. Do not look for the poison in the pharmacy. Look at the shipping manifests from the docks in Newark. Look at the wedding contract she signed with the Corban syndicate.'"
Marcella let out a strangled gasp, clawing at the edge of the tablecloth. "She was lying! She wanted to turn you against your own blood! I am your sister, Nico! I raised you after our mother died!"
"My wife died of sudden respiratory failure fourteen months ago," Nico said, his voice dropping an octave, becoming extraordinarily quiet. "The coroner reported natural causes. A weakened heart after childbirth."
"It was natural!" Marcella shrieked, tears finally cutting tracks through her makeup. "You had three independent doctors sign the certificate!"
"Doctors on your payroll," Nico whispered.
He bent down, scooping Vivia into the crook of his left arm. The little girl buried her face in his neck, her small fingers curling into his lapel. With his right hand, Nico slipped the plastic-wrapped drive into his inner breast pocket, directly over his heart.
"Rafe," Nico said, turning toward the private corridor leading to his study.
May you like
"Boss?"
"Take my sister to the sub-level cellar," Nico commanded, his tone completely flat. "Do not give her water. Do not remove her veil. Let her sit in her wedding dress until I come downstairs."
