Chapter 2
Vittorio Greco did not run. A veteran Mafia boss did not panic; he commanded the space around him. At fifty years old, he radiated a powerful, deeply masculine intimidation that commanded utter silence. His tailored dark three-piece suit shifted smoothly as he walked, his polished leather shoes clicking rhythmically against the marble. His thick, slightly wavy hair was slicked back, a few loose strands falling over his forehead to frame his angular, sharply defined jaw.
The guests instinctively parted for him. Their fair, rosy faces paled as they felt the sudden, crushing atmospheric pressure of his rage.
Vittorio reached the thick carpet in five long strides. He knelt gracefully, his cold eyes never leaving Bianca and Owen. With large, protective hands, he lifted his sobbing son from the floor. He set Nico safely back into the cushioned seat of the wheelchair, his thumb gently wiping a tear from the boy's flushed, rosy cheek.
Without a word, Vittorio reached down and picked up the shattered wooden airplane, placing it carefully onto Nico’s lap.
"I've got you, son," Vittorio said, his deep, raspy voice low and steady. "Nobody stays on the floor in this family."
Owen stepped forward, his chest puffed out with unearned bravado. He positioned himself directly between Vittorio and Bianca, a mocking, arrogant smile playing across his lips.
"Oh, come on, Vittorio," Owen scoffed, adjusting his luxury wristwatch. "Don't coddle the boy. It’s just a little lesson for the child of a piece of trash. He needs to learn where he belongs in the hierarchy of this family."
Vittorio slowly stood to his full height. The extreme, controlled stillness of his posture was terrifying. He looked at Owen, the short, neatly trimmed stubble on his jaw bristling as his jaw clenched.
"You called his mother a piece of trash," Vittorio murmured. He spoke slowly, with controlled pauses between words, keeping his volume low even as the threat saturated the bright room. Every sentence sounded measured, cold, and profoundly dangerous.
"She was a nobody, Vittorio," Bianca interjected, her voice shrill and defensive. "A waitress you picked up in a diner. And look what she gave you. A crippled heir. You are embarrassing the Greco name by parading him at these events."
"My wife," Vittorio said softly, "was the only clean thing in this entire bloodline. And my son is a king compared to the two of you."
Owen laughed, a harsh, abrasive sound. "You're getting soft in your old age, boss. The Commission in Chicago is already whispering about it. You let sentimentality ruin your judgment. Maybe it's time someone else took the head seat at the table."
"Is that right, Owen?" Vittorio asked, stepping half a pace closer. His cold, sharp eyes bored into his brother-in-law's skull. "You think you have the spine to sit in my chair?"
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"I think I have the spine to put you in your place," Owen sneered.
The tension in the luminous foyer snapped. Owen shifted his weight, his hands balling into fists. The surrounding bodyguards stiffened, reaching beneath their tailored jackets, but Vittorio raised a single, commanding finger, signaling them to stay back. This was not a matter for soldiers. This was a matter of blood.
