Chapter 5
The silence in the portrait studio grew incredibly dense, heavy with the weight of an unalterable verdict. The bright, cinematic lighting seemed to mock the absolute ruin of Damon Pierce. He sat slumped on the padded bench, his breath hitching as blood and dark paint dripped steadily from his chin onto the polished hardwood floor.
"Viviana, please," Damon choked out, his American accent slurring slightly from the swelling in his broken jaw. "You are overreacting. We are a family. You can't just do this over a painting."
"This has absolutely nothing to do with paint, Damon," Viviana said, her voice remaining low and dangerously controlled. She stepped closer, the sharp click of her leather shoes echoing in the quiet room. "This is about power. You felt incredibly small in this estate. You felt emasculated by my authority, so you decided to exert dominance over the only person smaller than you."
"That is a lie!" Rosalind shrieked suddenly, finding a sudden burst of desperate courage. She gripped the edge of the worktable, her pearl earrings shaking. "He is your husband! He has a right to discipline his own child! You run this family like a tyrant, Viviana! You never let him have a voice!"
Viviana slowly turned her head toward her mother-in-law. Her dark eyes were devoid of any mercy.
"He never had a voice because he lacks the intellect to use one," Viviana stated coldly. "I allowed you to live in my home, Rosalind. I allowed your son to share my name and my bed because it provided the illusion of stability for the commission. But you mistook my tolerance for weakness."
"You need us!" Damon argued weakly, attempting to wipe the dark paint from his eyes. "The traditional families... the capos... they won't respect a woman who throws her husband out on the street. They expect a patriarch!"
"The capos respect the one who holds the guns and the money, Damon," Viviana corrected him softly. "And you hold neither."
Viviana signaled to her lead bodyguard with a subtle tilt of her head. The massive man stepped forward, pulling a heavy set of zip-ties from his inner suit pocket.
"What are you doing?" Damon panicked, kicking his legs weakly as the bodyguard approached. "Viviana, stop him! Don't let him touch me!"
"Bind his hands," Viviana commanded, her voice dropping all traces of domestic familiarity, replaced entirely by the cold edict of a Mafia boss. "And bind hers."
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"You cannot do this to me!" Rosalind screamed as the second bodyguard marched toward her, easily twisting the older woman’s arms behind her back. The plastic zip-tie secured with a loud, ratcheting zip. "I am a respected member of this community! I have friends!"
"You had friends," Viviana murmured. "Now, you have nothing."
