Chapter 7
The apocalyptic ultimatum hung heavily in the bright, cinematic air of the mansion corridor. The threat of splitting the American Mafia family was not an idle one; a civil war would mean blood on the streets, lost territory, and millions in vanished revenue. Rocco crossed his arms over his tailored suit, a sickening, triumphant smile slowly beginning to creep back onto his fair, rosy face. He was certain he had won the standoff.
Vittorio did not blink. He stood immovable in his dark suit, his open-collar shirt revealing the steady, calm pulse at his throat. He looked at his mother, and then at his brother.
He didn't argue with them. He didn't attempt to negotiate or placate their egos. The cold, intimidating eyes of the Mafia boss simply shifted away from them and looked toward the top of the grand staircase.
"Bring them up," Vittorio commanded softly.
Rocco frowned, his smile faltering slightly. "Bring what up? What are you talking about?"
Heavy, synchronized footsteps echoed on the wooden stairs. Two massive White American bodyguards, dressed in professional dark suits, ascended to the second-floor landing. They weren't carrying Rocco's remaining moving boxes.
In their large hands, they carried matching, expensive designer luggage. Four large, heavily packed suitcases.
The bodyguards walked past Vittorio and dropped the heavy suitcases directly onto the carpet in front of Donatella and Rocco. The thud of the luggage hitting the floor sounded like a judge's gavel slamming down on a wooden block.
Donatella stared at the suitcases, her eyes widening in sudden, total confusion. She recognized the designer monogram. They were her suitcases. And beside them, Rocco’s distinct leather travel bags.
"What is the meaning of this?" Donatella demanded, her American accent cracking as a cold spike of dread finally pierced her arrogant armor.
While the adults were distracted by the luggage, Greta the maid saw her opportunity. Moving quietly and swiftly, she carried the large stack of Elodie’s folded floral bedding right past the stunned matriarch. Greta stepped quickly back into the primary suite, setting the bedding gently on the plush mattress, silently restoring the child's sanctuary.
Vittorio slowly turned his attention back to his mother and brother. He looked down at the woman who had just threatened to destroy his empire.
"You believed you were staging a coup while I was in Chicago," Vittorio said, his voice a quiet, lethal whisper that vibrated with absolute dominance. "I knew what you were planning before my plane even left the runway. I had my men pack your belongings three hours ago."
Rocco’s mouth dropped open. The realization that they had been outmaneuvered, that Vittorio had been lying in wait the entire time, completely shattered his false confidence.
Vittorio looked down at his mother, his eyes devoid of any familial warmth or mercy.
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“You packed the wrong child,” Vittorio stated, the words slicing through the bright air like an executioner's blade.
Rocco’s smile disappeared entirely. The color drained from his fair, rosy skin, leaving him looking sickly and pale. The bluff had been called, and the punishment was immediate, absolute exile.
