Chapter 7
The bright video colors of the ballroom—the emerald green of the torn gown, the stark white of the scattered napkins, the polished silver rolling across the floor—framed the absolute, undeniable total devastation of the old regime. The cinematic lighting offered a flawless, high-definition view of Lorenzo Bellandi's unyielding dominance.
He stood in the center of the destruction, adjusting the cuffs of his crisp white dress shirt. The intimidating aura of the Mafia boss expanded, filling every corner of the massive, silent room. The guests were paralyzed, their fair skin pale, acutely aware that breathing too loudly might draw his lethal attention.
Lorenzo slowly turned his back on the groaning, ruined matriarch. He walked with heavy, deliberate steps back toward the center of the room. His polished leather shoes crunched softly over the scattered pearls and broken glass.
He stopped near the shattered wooden tracks of the concealed wall panel. Bending down smoothly, Lorenzo picked up the heavy, black leather pet collar from the marble floor. The metal buckle clinked softly in his large, powerful hand.
He walked over to where Marcus was struggling to push himself up onto his elbows. The forty-year-old capo was coughing up blood, his tailored suit covered in food and debris from the silver serving domes. Marcus looked up at his cousin, genuine, unadulterated terror finally shining in his eyes.
Lorenzo stopped just inches from Marcus’s face. He didn't yell. He didn't kick the fallen man. Instead, with a gesture of ultimate, profound disrespect, Lorenzo opened his hand and dropped the heavy black pet collar directly onto Marcus’s bleeding chest.
The collar landed with a soft, pathetic slap against the ruined dress shirt.
"You believe my daughter is an embarrassment," Lorenzo said. His deep voice was dead calm, the controlled pauses stretching the tension until it felt as though the very air might shatter. Every word sounded measured, cold, and dripping with an apocalyptic danger.
He looked down at his cousin, his sharp, intimidating eyes completely devoid of mercy.
"This collar... suits you," Lorenzo whispered, his volume so low it was terrifying. "Wear it... for the rest of your life."
Across the room, lying amidst the scattered walking canes, Victoria’s face became a mask of pure, paralyzing fright. The color drained entirely from her lips. She finally understood the true, horrific implication of his words. This was not a physical beating; this was a formal, absolute excommunication. They were being stripped of their titles, their wealth, and their humanity within the syndicate.
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"Lorenzo, please," Victoria wheezed, her American accent cracking as tears of genuine despair finally spilled over her cheeks. "We are your blood! You cannot leave us like this!"
"You stopped being my blood... the second you put a collar on my child," Lorenzo replied, not even turning his head to look at her. He turned his attention to his lead bodyguards. "Lock down the estate. Disarm their men. If they resist, execute them."
