Chapter 9
Valeria walked back to the padded garden bench.
She knelt beside Arthur, gently taking his weathered, age-spotted hands into her own. The old man looked down at her, his pale blue eyes reflecting fifty years of shared bloodshed, survival, and sovereign rule.
"How is your hip, Father?" she asked softly, her American accent warm, rich with rare daughterly tenderness.
"It aches, Valeria," Arthur answered with a faint, proud smile. "Like it always does before a storm. You handled them well."
"They were children playing with matches," she said, rising to her feet. "Now I have to handle the boy."
Arthur’s smile faded, replaced by the heavy sorrow of a patriarch who had seen too many lines severed by ambition. "Luca was foolish, Valeria. But he carries your blood. He carries my name."
"He carried your name when he watched you hit the ground, Father," Valeria replied, her voice firm, unwavering, and carved from iron. "In this house, blood without loyalty is merely poison. And poison must be excised."
She turned and walked across the terrace flagstones, entering the cool, shadowed halls of the manor house.
The library on the second floor smelled of old leather, pipe tobacco, and polished mahogany. Sunlight streamed through the tall arched windows, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the quiet air.
Luca sat behind the massive antique desk—the desk Arthur had used to direct the five families for four decades. Luca’s head was resting in his hands, his dinner jacket discarded on the floor, his breathing shallow and ragged.
The heavy double doors clicked shut behind Valeria.
She walked slowly across the Persian rug, stopping on the other side of the desk. She did not sit down. She stood tall, her shadow falling across her son’s slumped shoulders.
Luca lifted his head. His eyes were red-rimmed, his cheek still bearing the distinct red mark of her palm. "Mother... are you going to kill me?"
Valeria looked down at him, her expression as still as a winter lake.
"A bullet would be too easy, Luca," she said softly. "A bullet would allow you to die thinking you were a martyr for a new era. You are not a martyr. You are a fool who almost handed our family's legacy to Chicago for thirty pieces of silver."
"I thought I could control them!" Luca cried out, slamming his palms onto the desk. "I thought if I had the Rourkes and the Morettis behind me, you would have to step aside peacefully! I never wanted Grandpa to get hurt! I swear to God, Mother, I didn't know Camille was going to push the chair!"
"You didn't know because you didn't look," Valeria said, her voice dropping into a low, terrifying hum. "You looked away, Luca. And in our world, looking away while an enemy strikes your own blood is identical to pulling the trigger yourself."
She reached into her jacket pocket, pulled out a single sheet of heavy cream parchment, and laid it flat on the desk between them.
May you like
It was an official deed of total forfeiture and exile, stamped with the red wax seal of the DeLuca trust.
"Sign it," Valeria commanded.
