Chapter 5
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 associates, and their designer-clad wives—stood pressed against the cedar walls, their faces drained of color.
Mark groaned, spitting mouthfuls of blood 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 boy? In front of our captains? I am your heir!"
"You are a parasite wearing my clothes," Richard replied, taking two slow, measured steps toward him. "You talk about discipline, Mark. When was the last time you looked at your own flesh and blood?"
"He's impossible, Richard!" Claudia shrieked from the floor, scrambling to her knees among the ruined gift boxes. Her fair cheeks were smeared with mascara and blood. "He cries constantly! He wets the bed! He refuses to eat! We were trying to teach him how to behave in polite society!"
"Polite society?" Richard's voice dropped to a terrifying whisper. "You shoved a barefoot child into zero-degree snow in a Colorado blizzard. If I arrived ten minutes later, he would have frozen to death on that terrace. Is that your idea of society, Claudia?"
"It was just five minutes!" Claudia cried defensively. "Just to cool his temper! Mark agreed with me! Ask him!"
Richard turned his slate-grey gaze back to his son. "Did you agree with her, Mark?"
Mark avoided his father's eyes, looking down at his ruined leather shoes. "Dad, she was stressed. We’ve been running the Denver accounts just like you asked. The boy was making a scene—"
"Where are his clothes, Mark?" Richard cut in. "Where are the winter coats I bought him before I left for New York? Where are his boots?"
Mark swallowed hard, his throat bobbing. "He... he outgrew them."
"He outgrew five pairs of boots in sixty days?" Richard challenged, stepping directly into Mark's personal space until the younger man was forced to lean back against the wreckage. "Or did you sell them off like everything else Elena left behind?"
"Don't bring Elena into this!" Mark shouted, his voice cracking with sudden, cornered panic. "Elena died because she was weak! She couldn't handle this life, and her kid is just like her!"
Before Mark could inhale his next breath, Richard’s hand shot forward. His fingers clamped around Mark’s throat like an iron vise, lifting the grown man until his toes barely scraped the floorboards.
"Speak her name with disrespect again," Richard whispered, every word carved from volcanic glass, "and I will tear your tongue out through your throat."
He slammed Mark back onto the splintered wood, leaving him coughing and retching for air.
May you like
From the top of the stairs, the heavy mahogany door opened. Dr. Mercer stepped out onto the mezzanine, his clinical tablet clutched tightly in his hand, his face pale with professional disgust.
"Don Richard," Dr. Mercer called down, his voice echoing through the vaulted hall. "You need to see this."
