Chapter 7
"Right away, Boss!" one of the senior capos barked, pulling his cell phone from his pocket and sprinting down the hallway toward the estate's medical wing.
Luciano knelt beside Celeste, his deeply masculine presence providing an immediate, grounding shield for his terrified wife. He ignored the blood on Dario’s face and the panic radiating from his father. His entire universe was focused solely on the woman clutching her swollen belly.
"Celeste, look at me," Luciano murmured softly, his cold, intimidating eyes softening only for her. He reached out with his tattooed hands, gently wiping the tears from her fair, rosy cheeks. "The doctor is coming. You are safe. I will not let anything happen to you or our child."
"It hurts, Luciano," Celeste cried, her body trembling violently in the elegant, pale-blue maternity dress. "My back... the stairs..."
"I know, my love," Luciano whispered, pressing a kiss to her forehead. He looked up at Nora, who was standing paralyzed nearby. "Nora. Get a blanket from the guest room. Bring water."
"Yes, Luciano," Nora nodded frantically, kicking off her graduation flats to run faster across the slippery marble floor.
Luciano turned his attention back to the room. He slowly stood up, leaving his hand resting comfortingly on Celeste’s shoulder. The bright, cinematic lighting of the foyer felt harsh and unforgiving as he surveyed the traitors in his house.
Augusto was edging slowly toward the heavy mahogany front doors, trying to slip away while his son was distracted.
"If you take one more step toward that door," Luciano said, his voice a low, terrifying rumble that froze the old man in his tracks, "I will have Marcus shoot you in both knees."
Marcus, the heavily armed head of security, instantly stepped into Augusto’s path, his hand resting menacingly on the grip of his holstered weapon. The bodyguards had made their choice; they answered to the current Boss, not the retired one.
Dario pushed himself up into a sitting position among the broken wooden models, groaning in agony. His face was a swollen, bloody mess. "Dom... you gotta understand. Dad said she wouldn't get hurt. He said there was padding under the carpet. It was just supposed to be a stunt to get you mad."
"A stunt," Luciano repeated, the controlled pauses between his words dripping with absolute disdain. "You are twenty-nine years old, Dario. And you still believe the lies he feeds you to do his dirty work."
"I did it for the family!" Augusto shouted defensively, pointing a trembling finger at Luciano. "You are weak! You negotiate when you should dictate! The Ferraro name used to mean something in this city!"
"The Ferraro name. Means exactly what I say it means," Luciano replied coldly. He walked slowly toward his father, the unbuttoned collar of his shirt exposing the sharp, refined tattoos that marked his ascension to power. "You sold your own grandson. For a seat at a table you built."
The heavy double doors of the medical wing burst open, and Dr. Evans, the family’s private physician, rushed into the foyer carrying a large black medical bag, followed closely by two nurses.
"Mr. Ferraro," the doctor said urgently, dropping to his knees beside Celeste. "Give us some room, please."
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Luciano took a step back, allowing the medical team to surround his wife. He watched as they carefully examined her, his heart hammering a violent, anxious rhythm against his ribs. The silence in the foyer was agonizing as they waited for the doctor's assessment.
"She is contracting, sir," Dr. Evans finally announced, looking up at Luciano with a grim, serious expression. "The trauma of the fall has induced premature labor. We need to move her to the sterile surgical suite immediately. We may have to deliver the baby today."
