Chapter 2
The heavy mahogany doors of the adjoining study swung open without a single sound, their brass hinges flawlessly oiled. The bodyguards stationed by the entrance instantly stiffened, their hands dropping to their sides in absolute reverence.
Roman Valenti stepped into the bright, cinematic light of the dining room.
At forty-three, Roman possessed a masculine, movie-star handsomeness that commanded the very oxygen in the room. His thick, slightly wavy dark hair was naturally slicked back, but a few loose strands fell effortlessly over his forehead, giving him a dangerously charming, romantic look. His angular face, high-bridged nose, and sharply defined jawline were shadowed by extremely short, neatly trimmed stubble. His cold, sharp, intimidating eyes swept the room. He wore a dark, tailored suit, the shirt unbuttoned at the chest to reveal a glimpse of his fair, rosy skin. Artistic tattoos adorned his hands and fingers—refined, sharp designs utilizing negative space so perfectly they looked like weapons of ink rather than mere decoration.
Roman stopped dead in his tracks.
The vibrant colors of the room seemed to freeze. Through the gap in the chairs, Roman’s piercing gaze locked onto the space beneath the long formal table. His son, Milo, was crouched on the carpet in filthy, torn clothes, his small hands reaching into a metal dog bowl to eat cold scraps with his trembling fingers.
"Boss," one of the capos whispered, his voice hitching in sheer panic as he realized what Roman was witnessing.
Roman did not acknowledge the capo. He moved with a terrifying, predatory silence. He crossed the hardwood floor, his polished leather shoes making almost no sound. When he reached the table, he gripped the heavy wooden chair blocking his path and effortlessly pulled it aside, the legs screeching sharply against the floor.
He knelt on the pristine carpet, heedless of his expensive suit. His tattooed hands reached out, gently grasping his son beneath the arms. With infinite, protective care, Roman lifted the three-year-old safely onto his feet, pulling him out from the shadows of the table and into the bright light.
Milo blinked, wiping a smudge of grease from his mouth. His fair, rosy cheeks were wet with tears. He stared at the towering, masculine figure of the Mafia boss, his small mind struggling to process the sudden rescue.
"Dad..." Milo whispered, his voice confused and tearful. His little hands reached out, grasping the fabric of Roman's unbuttoned shirt. "Dad... is it really you?"
"I am here. Milo," Roman said. He spoke slowly, with controlled, deliberate pauses between his words. His volume was incredibly low, barely above a whisper, yet it carried a measured, cold, and absolute danger. "I am right here."
"Grandma said you went away forever," Milo sobbed, burying his filthy face into his father’s chest. "She said I had to be a dog now."
Roman closed his eyes for a fraction of a second. When he opened them, the cold, sharp intimidation in his gaze had intensified into a lethal, freezing fire. He gently stroked his son’s hair, keeping the boy secured against his chest.
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"No one. Will ever speak to you. That way again," Roman promised softly.
He slowly turned his head, his gaze rising from the floor to lock onto the women seated at the table. The silence in the dining room became absolute, suffocating, and heavy with the promise of violence.
