Chapter 4
The great entrance hall remained trapped in an absolute, suffocating silence. Nobody dared to breathe. Nobody dared to shift their weight on the polished timber floor. The fifty guests in attendance—veteran syndicate captains, high-ranking loan sharks, and their designer-clad wives—stood pressed against the cedar walls, their faces drained of color.
Richard looked down at Noah, who was still trembling inside the folds of the cashmere overcoat, his small, tear-stained face buried into Richard’s silk necktie.
"Santino," Richard commanded softly, without taking his eyes off Mark.
From the perimeter of the room, a broad-shouldered man of fifty with silver-streaked hair and a scarred temple stepped forward. "Yes, Don Richard."
"Take Noah upstairs to my private master suite," Richard instructed, his voice steady as iron. "Have Dr. Mercer examine his feet immediately for frostbite. Have Mrs. Gable draw a warm bath, find fresh clothes, and prepare hot broth. If my grandson sheds another tear, I will hold you personally accountable."
"On my life, Boss," Santino replied with deep reverence.
He reached out with massive, scarred hands, taking Noah gently from Richard’s arms. Noah clung tightly to his little wooden airplane, whispering through his sniffles, "Grandpa... will you keep my plane?"
Richard reached out, his rough, tattooed thumb wiping away a streak of dried mud from Noah’s rosy cheek. "Your airplane is the guest of honor tonight, Noah. It sits at the head of the table. Go with Santino."
Noah nodded bravely, allowing the veteran enforcer to carry him up the grand sweeping staircase. The moment the suite door clicked shut on the second floor, the last vestige of paternal softness evaporated from Richard’s face.
He turned back to the wreckage.
Mark was groaning, spitting mouthfuls of blood and broken teeth onto the wine-soaked rug as he shoved a splintered sled runner off his chest. His expensive cream sweater was ruined, torn across the shoulder and saturated in vintage alcohol.
"Dad..." Mark wheezed, clutching his dislocated jaw with trembling fingers. "You broke my jaw... for that little bastard? He’s not even—"
"Choose your next word with extreme care, Mark," Richard interrupted, his voice dropping into a register that made the hair on the back of every man's neck stand up. "Because whatever leaves your mouth will determine whether you leave this mountain in a car or in a pine box."
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Claudia scrambled to her knees among the rolls of ribbon, her emerald gown torn, her mascara running in black streaks over her swollen cheek. "Richard! You cannot treat us like this! We are your family! Mark is your only son!"
"My son was raised to be a man," Richard said, taking two slow, deliberate steps toward her. "Not a coward who throws a barefoot three-year-old into a Colorado blizzard."
