Chapter 5
Richard gestured to the two armed sentries standing near the fireplace. "Get them on their feet."
The guards didn't hesitate. They hauled Mark and Claudia up by their elbows, dragging them to the center of the open floor. Mark could barely stand, his knees wobbling beneath his tailored trousers, while Claudia wept hysterically, clutching her bruised jaw with hands that shook like autumn leaves.
Richard walked over to the overturned gift-wrapping table. Resting on the floor among the scattered bows was an embossed leather document folder that had fallen from Claudia’s designer handbag during the scuffle.
Richard bent down, picked it up, and flipped it open with a snap of his wrist.
His grey eyes scanned the legal papers inside, and the cold stillness around him deepened into an arctic void.
"What is this, Mark?" Richard asked quietly.
Mark swallowed hard, his eyes darting frantically toward the front door. "It’s... it’s just family business, Dad. Estate planning."
"Estate planning," Richard read aloud, his voice echoing off the high stone walls. "Petition for Involuntary Commitment and Transfer of Minor Wardship. Saint Jude’s Boarding Facility, Montana."
Richard looked up, his gaze drilling straight through Mark’s skull. "A reformatory for severely delinquent youths? For a three-year-old child?"
"He has behavioral issues, Richard!" Claudia shrieked, desperate to deflect the blame. "He screams at night! He destroys property! He refuses to accept me as his mother! We were trying to protect the Bellacorte name from the embarrassment!"
"He screams at night because you lock him in the unheated pantry, Claudia," a cold, steady voice echoed from the top of the stairs.
Every head in the room turned.
Standing on the mezzanine was Dr. Mercer, the family’s private physician, holding a clinical tablet in his hands. His fair face was pale with professional disgust.
"Speak, Doctor," Richard commanded.
Dr. Mercer descended the stairs, his voice ringing with absolute clarity. "I have just completed the preliminary examination of Noah. He has third-degree frostnip on both feet. His ribcage is clearly visible due to severe, chronic malnourishment. And his back... his back is covered in linear contusions consistent with being struck with a leather dress belt."
A collective murmur of revulsion rippled through the gathered capos. In the Bellacorte syndicate, violence was a tool of war, business, and territory. But harming an innocent child of their own blood was an unforgivable sin—a violation of the sacred oath of the family.
Richard’s hands tightened on the leather folder until the heavy cardboard snapped between his fingers.
"Who held the belt, Mark?" Richard asked, his voice deathly soft.
May you like
Mark looked down at his leather shoes, his chest heaving with terrified, shallow breaths. "He... he spilled his juice on my laptop, Dad. I had important files—"
"You hit my grandson with a belt," Richard whispered, every word carved from volcanic glass. "While you wore cashmere and drank fifty-year-old bourbon purchased with my money."
