Chapter 2
The temperature in the banquet hall plummeted into sub-zero frost. Not a single silver fork moved. Twenty-five grown men and women froze in their seats, their breath hitching in their throats as the Don crossed the threshold.
Antonio didn't shout. He didn't curse. The unhurried, rhythmic click of his polished leather shoes against the floor sounded like the cocking of an executioner's rifle. Every line of his chiseled jaw was carved from granite, his broad chest rising and falling with terrifying, controlled stillness.
In three long strides, Antonio reached the head of the table.
He didn't look at his aunt. He didn't look at Damian. He dropped to one knee before the chair, his large, calloused hands closing around the heavy damask sash. With a single, explosive pull, Antonio shredded the tight fabric, ripping the weave apart as if it were tissue paper.
"I have you, Lucas," Antonio murmured, his deep baritone extraordinarily gentle, a low vibration meant only for his son. "You’re safe now, my boy."
Lucas threw his arms around his father’s neck, burying his wet face into the crisp collar of Antonio’s dress shirt, shivering violently. Antonio stood to his full, towering height, gathering the three-year-old securely against his ribs with his left arm.
Damian took an aggressive step forward. Emboldened by months of whispers and the silent compliance of the relatives at the table, the thirty-nine-year-old capo reached his hand straight toward Lucas’s shoulder.
"Antonio, calm down," Damian said, a tight, arrogant smirk playing on his lips. "You spoil the boy rotten. Everyone at this table agreed he needed discipline."
Antonio’s right hand moved like a striking viper.
His fingers clamped around Damian’s forearm with hydraulic force, wrenching the man's hand away from the child so violently that bone ground against bone. Damian let out a choked gasp of pain, his smirk instantly shattering as he tried and failed to break the Don's grip.
"Discipline?" Antonio whispered, his voice dangerously soft.
"He's three years old, Antonio!" Damian snarled, his pride flaring under the gaze of the watching capos. Desperation overtook his sense of survival. With his free hand, Damian lunged and shoved Antonio’s broad shoulder. "He needs to learn respect for this house!"
The fatal mistake echoed through the hall.
Antonio’s slate-grey eyes flared with black fire. Without releasing Damian’s wrist, Antonio twisted his body, his right hand shooting behind Damian’s neck to seize the collar of his tailored jacket while his other hand grabbed Damian’s waistband.
With terrifying, effortless physical power, Antonio hoisted the two-hundred-pound man off his feet.
He didn't hesitate. Antonio marched Damian six rapid paces across the dining room, his boots pounding into the floor, and forcefully hurled his cousin straight through the open banquet doors.
Damian flew through the air, crashing hard onto the carpeted hallway runner outside, skidding into the wainscoting with a concussive thud.
Before Damian could roll over or draw breath, two towering Bellaforte bodyguards in dark suits stepped into the doorway, their hands resting inside their jackets, forming an impenetrable human wall that blocked him from ever setting foot back inside the room.
Antonio turned back to the long dining table.
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He did not raise his voice. He stood with his son held securely against his chest, his gaze sweeping slowly over every brother, sister, cousin, and capo who sat frozen beneath the chandeliers.
"Anyone who agreed that my child needed to be taught a lesson," Antonio commanded, his voice low, menacing, and echoing like rolling thunder, "stand up!"
