Chapter 7
The bodyguards moved with ruthless, mechanical efficiency. Two massive men stepped forward from the doors, grabbing Evelyn roughly by the arms of her expensive formal gown. The matriarch shrieked, kicking her heels against the polished marble floor, but she was entirely powerless against the raw strength of the suited enforcers.
"Alex! Please! I am your mother!" Evelyn wailed, her voice echoing shrilly across the ruined dining room. "You are cursing your own soul! You will burn in hell for this!"
"I am already there," Alex murmured softly, watching without a single trace of emotion as she was dragged backward toward the secondary exit.
The heavy doors slammed shut behind her, instantly cutting off her hysterical screams.
The dining room descended into a heavy, ringing silence. The wealthy guests and remaining capos sat completely frozen, terrified that the slightest movement would draw the Don's lethal attention. The bright cinematic lighting illuminated the catastrophic wreckage of the table—the shattered glass, the ruined linens, the spilled soup.
Alex stood in the center of the room. He slowly adjusted the cuffs of his tailored suit, his breathing completely even. The brutal violence of the last ten minutes had been executed with the flawless precision of a surgeon excising a tumor.
He turned his cold, intimidating eyes toward the catering kitchen archway.
Grant Vance was still lying on the floor beneath the collapsed catering rack, buried in broken ceramics and bent metal. He groaned in agony, clutching his ribs, entirely unable to stand. He had witnessed the total dismantling of his aunt, and he knew his own judgment was imminent.
"Grant," Alex said, his deep, raspy voice carrying effortlessly into the kitchen.
Grant flinched, blood dripping from his nose onto the pristine tiles. "Alex, listen to me. I didn't know. I swear to God, I didn't know she burned them. I just thought she was being strict. I was just trying to keep the peace at the table."
"You lunged at me," Alex stated, stating the fact with a chilling emotional detachment. "You attempted to strike the head of this family to protect a woman who tortured a three-year-old."
"I panicked!" Grant pleaded, his American accent trembling violently. "She told me earlier that Maya was trying to poison you against the family! She convinced me that Maya was the enemy! I was confused!"
"Confusion is a luxury a capo cannot afford," Alex replied slowly, walking toward the kitchen archway. He stopped at the threshold, looking down at his bleeding cousin. "You are arrogant, Grant. You believed your blood tied you to power, but you lack the discipline to wield it. You are a liability."
"Please, Alex," Grant begged, tears streaming down his face. "I'll do anything. I'll take a demotion. I'll run the low-level collections in the outer boroughs. Just don't put me in the dark with her."
"I have no intention of putting you in the bunker," Alex said softly.
He reached beneath the jacket of his three-piece suit. In one fluid, practiced motion, he drew a heavy-caliber, suppressed tactical pistol from his shoulder holster. The matte black metal absorbed the bright sunlight.
Grant gasped, his eyes widening in sheer, unadulterated terror. "Alex, no! We are family!"
"We were," Alex whispered.
Pfft.
The suppressed gunshot was barely a whisper in the vast, echoing space of the estate. Grant collapsed backward onto the tiled floor, entirely motionless among the broken plates.
May you like
Alex did not blink. He smoothly holstered the weapon, turning his back on the kitchen. He looked out over the terrified guests remaining at the dining table.
"The birthday celebration is concluded," Alex announced, his voice echoing with measured, dangerous authority. "Clear the room. Anyone who speaks of what occurred here today will answer directly to me."
