Chapter 6
The heavy, apocalyptic silence in the bright, luminous lounge was deafening. The fifty elite guests, who had come to network and sip champagne, now realized they were witnesses to a bloodless, brutal coup. Amadeo’s declaration had stripped Cyril of every ounce of power and protection he possessed. He was entirely isolated, standing ruined and trembling amidst the shattered glass of the console.
Cyril looked frantically toward the capos and relatives he had spent months courting and bribing, searching for a single ally to stand with him against the boss. He found none. The men who had laughed at Amadeo's expense moments ago now stared at the floor, desperate to distance themselves from the blast radius.
"You can't do this!" Cyril shrieked, his voice losing all its refined polish, echoing shrilly off the high ceilings. "I built the northern distribution network! I bring in half the revenue for this syndicate! You are cutting off your own supply lines!"
Amadeo slowly turned his broad shoulders, pulling his gaze away from the ruined man to address the silent room. He kept his hand firmly wrapped around Nerina's.
"Do you expect me to accept the premise that a man who plots to murder his own blood is capable of managing a multi-million dollar enterprise with honor?" Amadeo asked, his deep, measured voice vibrating with a terrifying, contained fury.
He took a slow, deliberate step toward Cyril, his polished leather shoes crunching softly on a stray shard of glass, pulling Nerina gently along with him.
"I was protecting the family!" Cyril lied desperately, backing away until his legs hit the remains of the metal console. "You are too soft, Amadeo! You let your emotions dictate your leadership! The commission thinks you are weak because you refuse to expand! I had to take control before they replaced us both!"
"Is it a demonstration of strength to sneak a bomb onto a private plane?" Amadeo asked, his dark eyes narrowing into lethal slits. "Or is it simply the cowardice of a man who knows he could never win a fair fight?"
Cyril opened his mouth to scream another defense, but Amadeo raised his free hand in a subtle, sharp gesture.
Instantly, the heavy mahogany doors at the far end of the VIP lounge swung open. Six of Amadeo’s personal enforcers, dressed in sharp dark suits that mirrored their boss’s aesthetic, marched into the room. They moved with terrifying, synchronized efficiency, bypassing the frozen guests and heading directly for the senior capo.
The two bodyguards flanking Cyril—the Black American and the white American—exchanged a quick, terrified glance. They were mercenaries, paid to protect the capo, but they were surrounded by dozens of heavily armed members of the Westbourne syndicate. They realized instantly that their employer was a dead man, and their loyalty was suddenly a fatal liability.
Slowly, deliberately, both bodyguards released Cyril's arms. They stepped backward, abandoning the capo and raising their hands in a gesture of absolute surrender to the boss.
"No! Get your hands off me!" Cyril screamed as the towering enforcers grabbed him roughly by the arms. The expensive fabric of his formal suit tore slightly under their brutal grip. "You are making a mistake, Amadeo! The commission won't stand for this!"
"Do you believe the commission cares about a traitor who was bested by a housemaid?" Amadeo asked softly, watching him struggle with a cold, unyielding stare.
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"Will you escort this civilian to the basement holding cells and ensure he has no access to a telephone?" Amadeo ordered his men, his command absolute.
Cyril thrashed wildly, his expensive shoes scrambling uselessly against the polished floor as they dragged him away. His frantic, echoing screams faded as he was forced out of the lounge, the heavy doors slamming shut with a definitive thud.
