Chapter 3
The only sounds in the subterranean garage were the hiss of a punctured detailing bottle and Gavin’s wet, ragged breathing beneath the fallen tire rack.
Nico did not move. He stood with his hands resting easily at his sides, the tailored lines of his suit unruffled, his breathing as calm as if he were admiring an art gallery. The short, immaculate beard framed a face that had witnessed four decades of mob executions, backroom treachery, and territorial wars.
"Gavin," Nico spoke, his volume barely louder than a whisper, but every word carried the weight of an iron anchor. "Get up."
A shudder ran through the pile of tires. Gavin shoved a heavy rubber tread off his chest, groaning in agony as he rolled onto his hands and knees. Blood poured from his broken nose, dripping steadily onto the clean concrete, staining his white dress shirt. His left eye was already swelling shut into an ugly violet knot.
"You... you broke my jaw, you psycho," Gavin spat, coughing crimson onto the floor. He tried to stand, his knees wobbling violently before he slumped back against the dented frame of the rack. "You think you can treat us like your dockworkers? My family owns half the commercial real estate on the eastern seaboard!"
Nico took two slow, measured steps toward him. "You own what I allow you to lease, Gavin. You breathe because I have not yet decided to cut your throat."
Nico turned his head slightly toward the SUV. "Sienna."
The young woman took a shuddering step forward, her flats dragging against the floor. She kept both hands cupped beneath her swollen belly, her face slick with cold sweat.
"Dad," she whispered, her voice trembling with a mixture of terror and overwhelming relief. "Don't let them near Mila. Please."
"Nobody touches my blood," Nico replied without looking away from Gavin. "Tell me what happened upstairs, Sienna. Every word."
Before Sienna could speak, Marjorie Cole scrambled forward on her knees, her expensive formal gown smeared with dirt and chemical residue. She reached out, her trembling, jewel-encrusted hands hovering inches from the hem of Nico's trousers, not daring to make contact.
"Nico, please, listen to reason!" Marjorie begged, her voice shrill with frantic desperation. "It was an argument between husband and wife! A private marital matter! Gavin was frustrated—Sienna has been difficult with the pregnancy, refusing to sign the trust amendments—"
Nico’s eyes dropped to Marjorie. He didn't raise his hand; he merely looked at her, and the older woman choked on her own breath, instantly falling silent.
"A private matter," Nico repeated slowly, drawing out the syllables with chilling precision. "Your daughter brought shears to my granddaughter's head. Your son put his hands on my pregnant child. Is that your definition of family, Marjorie?"
Behind the collapsed shelving, Sabrina let out a pathetic moan, shifting amidst the scattered microfiber towels and cracked plastic bottles. Her fair cheek was swollen to twice its normal size, a vivid purple handprint etched across her skin.
"He's going to kill us," Sabrina sobbed, clutching her bruised jaw. "Mother, he's going to kill us right here."
"Not yet," Nico said, his voice flat and detached. "First, I want the truth. Sienna. Speak."
May you like
Sienna looked at her husband, her eyes filling with a fierce, burning grief.
"He didn't just push me, Dad," Sienna said, her voice shaking with righteous fury. "He tried to throw me down the concrete cellar stairs. Because I found the Cayman accounts. And the contract with the Morello family."
