Chapter 6
Vittorio did not flinch at the threat of a syndicate war. He didn't negotiate, and he didn't raise his voice to argue the logistics of their betrayal. He simply reached into his tailored suit jacket, pulled out a sleek, encrypted smartphone, and hit a single speed-dial button.
He held the phone to his ear, his eyes never leaving Rocco’s smug face.
"Marcus," Vittorio said into the receiver. "Come upstairs."
He hung up the phone and slipped it back into his pocket. The silence returned, tense and expectant. Rocco exchanged a quick, uncertain glance with Donatella. They had expected Vittorio to bargain, to yell, to demand their loyalty. His absolute, glacial calm was entirely off-script.
Ten seconds later, the heavy sound of synchronized footsteps echoed up the grand staircase.
Two massive bodyguards—white American men built like linebackers, wearing professional, immaculate dark suits—crested the landing. These were not the estate guards who answered to Donatella; these were Vittorio’s personal strike team, men whose loyalty had been bought with blood and forged in the trenches of the underworld.
They didn't draw their weapons, but their hands rested casually near their unbuttoned jackets. They marched straight down the hallway, their faces carved from stone.
But they weren't coming to escort Donatella and Rocco to the war room.
In their massive hands, they carried matching, heavy designer suitcases.
Donatella’s eyes widened in sudden, horrifying realization. She recognized the custom Italian leather. It was her own luggage, followed immediately by Rocco’s expensive travel bags. The guards marched right past Vittorio and dropped the heavy suitcases onto the carpet at Donatella and Rocco’s feet with a synchronized, final thud.
Rocco’s jaw dropped. The triumphant smirk vanished completely from his face, replaced by a sudden, sickening wave of panic. He looked at the luggage, then up at his brother’s impassive face.
While the distraction held their attention, Greta, the maid, finally found her courage. She realized that the power dynamic in the house had permanently shifted. With her head bowed, she quietly stepped out from her position against the wall. Clutching Elodie’s floral bedding tightly to her chest, she slipped past the paralyzed matriarch and quietly carried the sheets back into the grand master suite—the room that rightfully belonged to the boss’s daughter.
Donatella stared at the suitcases, her chest heaving as the reality of the situation crashed down upon her. She had threatened to leave and start a war, believing she held all the leverage. She hadn't realized that Vittorio had already made his choice the moment he saw his daughter crying on the floor.
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"What is this?" Rocco stammered, his American accent pitching up an octave, his rosy skin turning a sickly shade of gray. "Vic... what are you doing?"
Vittorio stepped forward, his polished shoes coming to a halt just inches from the designer luggage. The bright, vivid sunlight from the skylights caught the sharp angles of his face, making him look like a carved monument of vengeance.
