Chapter 3
Roman’s expression became completely still. It was the terrifying stillness of a predator waiting for the exact moment to strike. He slowly rose to his feet, keeping Milo tucked safely behind his leg. The bright, cinematic lighting caught the sharp angles of Roman's jaw and the elegant negative space of the tattoos on his fingers as he rested his hand protectively on his son’s shoulder.
Vivian’s fair, rosy face remained stubbornly composed, though a flicker of unease danced in her eyes. Refusing to show weakness in front of the capos and bodyguards, she reached across the pristine white tablecloth. She grabbed Milo’s untouched, porcelain dinner plate—loaded with hot, perfectly cooked food—and deliberately held it away from him, placing it near her own wine glass.
Caroline, sitting to Vivian's right, barely looked up from her meal. She sliced a small piece of steak, her expensive jewelry clinking softly against her cutlery.
"You are interrupting dinner, Roman," Caroline said, her American accent dripping with dismissive arrogance. "You should have called before arriving. The staff wasn't prepared for you."
"Why. Is my son. In rags?" Roman asked. His voice remained dangerously low, the controlled pauses slicing through the room like a razor blade.
"He ruined his good clothes playing in the mud this morning," Vivian interjected smoothly, smoothing the fabric of her elegant formal dress. "He refused to apologize to the maids. We are teaching him accountability."
"By feeding him. From a dog bowl," Roman stated. It was not a question.
"Mom’s fixing his behavior," Caroline added dismissively, taking a bite of her steak. "He has been insufferable since you left for Chicago. Someone had to establish boundaries. He needs to learn respect for his elders."
"Respect," Roman echoed softly.
"Exactly," Vivian said, lifting her chin. "You spoil the boy, Roman. You are the head of this family, but you treat him like a fragile piece of glass. The Valenti bloodline requires strength. He needs to learn that he does not run this estate."
Roman did not yell. He did not argue. He slowly reached up with his heavily tattooed hands and took hold of the lapels of his tailored suit jacket. With deliberate, terrifying calm, Roman slowly removed his jacket, sliding the expensive fabric off his broad shoulders. He draped the jacket carefully over the back of an empty chair, revealing the unbuttoned collar of his shirt and the powerful, masculine build beneath it.
"Daddy?" Milo whispered, hiding behind Roman’s trousers.
May you like
"Close your eyes. Milo," Roman instructed quietly, his gaze never leaving his mother’s face. "And cover your ears."
The bodyguards around the room stiffened, their hands drifting instinctively toward their waistbands. They knew the Boss. They knew the precise, cold rhythm of his anger. The removal of the jacket was not a gesture of comfort; it was the quiet, terrifying preparation for an execution.
