Chapter 9
The sun had begun its golden descent behind the western palisades, casting long, dramatic shadows across the grand estate. The smell of cordite had been washed from the courtyard by high-pressure hoses; the gravel had been raked clean; and the iron gates stood locked once more beneath the watchful eyes of forty fresh Bellandi soldiers.
In the grand ballroom, where the wedding feast had been shattered hours earlier, the fifty senior family members sat in absolute, petrified silence.
The broken crystal flutes had been swept away, but the stains of spilled wine still marked the white damask tablecloths. No one spoke; no one dared reach for their silver.
The double mahogany doors swung open.
Nico Bellandi entered the room.
He had showered and changed into an immaculate, tailored charcoal three-piece suit, a crisp white dress shirt unbuttoned at the collar, his dark beard neatly groomed, his hair combed back with razor precision. He moved with the effortless, devastating grace of an emperor entering a conquered court.
Behind him marched Rafe Calder and two enforcers, dragging Marcella between them.
Marcella’s wedding gown was stripped of its veil, her jewelry confiscated, her feet bare against the cold marble. She was forced down onto her knees before the high table, where the family elders sat paralyzed with dread.
Nico did not sit. He stood at the head of the long table, resting his hands flat against the polished mahogany, his slate-gray eyes sweeping over the fifty men and women who shared his name.
"For fourteen months," Nico began, his deep, raspy voice carrying to every corner of the vast hall, "this family believed that Julianna Bellandi died of a broken heart and a frail body."
He paused, letting the silence press down upon their chests.
"Today," Nico continued, "my daughter showed me the truth. Marcella Bellandi conspired with Vincent Corban to poison my wife, liquidate our northern logistics lines, and execute this entire table during dinner."
A collective, horrified gasp broke from the capos. Uncle Silvio leaped to his feet, his hands shaking in outrage. "Treason! Against the sovereign Don?! Marcella, you unnatural monster!"
Marcella did not look up. She kept her forehead pressed against the cold marble, weeping silently.
"Under Article One of the Bellandi Charter," Nico said, his voice dropping into that chilling, executive cadence, "treason against the Don and the murder of a reigning Donna carries only one sentence."
He looked down at Marcella.
"You are officially stripped of the Bellandi name," Nico declared, every word carved from stone. "Your trust funds are revoked and transferred into an educational endowment for Vivia. Your real estate in Manhattan and Palm Beach is seized. You are erased from the registry."
"Nico... please..." Marcella sobbed, clawing at the marble. "Where will I go?"
"You will be placed on a cargo freighter bound for an offshore mining facility in the Aleutian Islands," Nico replied, not a shred of mercy in his tone. "You will work in the laundry barracks. You will have no phone, no money, and no visitors. If you ever set foot on the continental United States again, Rafe will not ask for an explanation. He will put a bullet through the back of your head."
Marcella let out a broken, animal wail as two guards hauled her to her feet, dragging her backward across the marble floor until the heavy service doors clicked shut behind her, sealing her exile forever.
Nico turned his cold gaze back to the fifty captains at the table.
"Does anyone else wish to discuss the succession?" Nico asked softly.
May you like
Not a single soul moved. Grown men who had run rackets for thirty years bowed their heads in absolute, unquestioned submission.
"Good," Nico said. "Dinner is concluded. Return to your territories."
