Chapter 6
Roman held his son securely against his broad chest, the soft, dirty fabric of Milo’s ruined sweater pressing against his pristine, unbuttoned dress shirt. The contrast between the powerful, movie-star handsome Mafia boss and the filthy, weeping toddler was stark under the bright, natural lighting of the dining room.
Roman’s chest heaved slightly, furious beyond measure, yet maintaining a terrifying, icy calm. His sharply defined jaw was clenched so tightly that the muscles twitched beneath his well-groomed stubble.
Vivian pushed herself up onto her elbows from the wreckage of the silver serving trolley. Her elegant formal dress was stained with spilled gravy and food scraps. Her pearl necklace had snapped, the beads rolling uselessly across the hardwood. She looked up at her son, her fair, rosy face now completely drained of its aristocratic arrogance. For the first time in her life, Vivian’s face became genuinely, profoundly frightened.
"Roman... please," Vivian gasped, her American accent cracking as she wiped a smear of blood from her lip. "You have made your point. We went too far. It was a mistake."
Roman slowly walked toward her, his polished leather shoes crunching over the broken wine glass and scattered silver utensils. He stopped just inches from where she lay.
"A mistake. Is forgetting to lock a door," Roman said, his voice slow, measured, and utterly devoid of mercy. "Torturing my blood. While I am away. Is a declaration of war."
"We are your family!" Caroline sobbed from beneath the collapsed wine-storage rack, struggling to push a heavy wooden divider off her chest. "You can't do this to us! We built this syndicate with you!"
"You built nothing," Roman replied softly, not even turning his head to look at his sister. "You spent the money I bled for."
He looked back down at his mother. The cold, sharp intimidation in his eyes pinned her to the floor like a physical weight.
"My son. Had to eat under the table," Roman said, his voice dead calm, delivering his final verdict with absolute, chilling precision. "So you’ll eat out on the street."
Vivian’s eyes widened in sheer horror. "Roman, no! You cannot banish me! I am the matriarch! The other families will view this as weakness! You will lose the respect of the Commission!"
"I am the Commission," Roman whispered. He turned his head slightly, his gaze locking onto the lead capo standing near the study doors. "Marcus."
"Yes, Boss," Marcus answered immediately, stepping forward.
"Strip them of their jewelry," Roman commanded, his voice remaining unnervingly low. "Take their phones. Take their keys. They leave this estate with exactly what they are wearing. Nothing more."
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"Roman, please!" Vivian shrieked, reaching a trembling hand toward him. "I am your mother! Where will we go? We have no cash! You are signing our death warrants!"
"If you are hungry enough," Roman said, throwing her own cruel words back at her with devastating finality, "you’ll stop being picky. Get them out of my house."
