Chapter 5
The shockwave of the slap slowly began to recede, leaving a thick, suffocating tension in its wake. Rocco’s paralysis finally broke, replaced by a sudden, reckless surge of adrenaline and humiliated pride. He stepped forward angrily, his hands balling into fists at his sides, his polished shoes crunching over the scattered pearls.
"Are you out of your mind?!" Rocco shouted, his American accent harsh and nasal. "You hit our mother! Over a brat! Have you lost your damn mind, Vic?"
Vittorio slowly turned his head. His slate-gray eyes locked onto his brother. The look was so dead, so devoid of familial affection, that Rocco instantly stopped his advance, taking an involuntary half-step back.
From the pile of collapsed boxes, Donatella pushed herself upright. Her elegant hair was ruined, falling across her face in messy gray strands. Her cheek was swelling rapidly, the red mark transitioning into a deep, ugly purple. She refused the help of the bodyguards, using a crushed cardboard box to lever herself onto her trembling legs.
She did not cry. She was a creature of pure, concentrated ambition, and her shock had immediately transmuted into venomous, calculating fury. She straightened her ruined designer jacket, glaring at her eldest son with eyes that burned with raw hatred.
"You made a mistake, Vittorio," Donatella hissed, her voice shaking with adrenaline. She spat a small drop of blood onto the pristine carpet. "You think because you wear the ring, you own the power. You own nothing without the captains. You own nothing without the men I brought to your table."
"You brought me nothing but headaches," Vittorio replied, his voice a low, rumbling bass.
Donatella stepped forward, her heels grinding into the floorboards. She pointed a trembling finger at Elodie, who was still huddled on the floor, clutching her stuffed rabbit.
"Choose that girl," Donatella said, her words dripping with pure, unadulterated venom, "and Rocco walks with the family."
The threat hung in the bright, sunlit hallway, heavy and lethal. It wasn't an empty boast. Donatella was the political architect of the Mancini syndicate. She held the loyalty of three of the five active capos. If Rocco walked out of the estate with her backing, he wouldn't just be leaving; he would be taking half the soldiers, half the rackets, and the entire logistics network with him. It would fracture the family in two. It would mean a brutal, bloody civil war on the streets of their city.
Rocco puffed out his chest, emboldened by his mother’s ultimatum. He adjusted his tailored suit, a vicious, triumphant gleam returning to his eyes. He believed Vittorio was cornered. A Mafia boss could not afford a civil war over a nursery room.
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"You heard her, Vic," Rocco sneered. "You want to play house with the kid? Fine. But you do it alone. I’ll take over the eastern ports by midnight. The men answer to blood, not to babysitters. Make your choice."
Vittorio looked at his mother. He looked at his brother. He calculated the cost of the war, the lives it would take, the millions it would burn. Then, he looked down at his five-year-old daughter, whose fair skin was still flushed with terror because the people who were supposed to love her had treated her like garbage.
