Chapter 4
The bright, luminous foyer was plunged into an eerie, ringing silence, broken only by the soft, ragged breathing of Owen Greco beneath the fallen acoustic panels. The warm golden light from the chandeliers illuminated the scattered sheet music that blanketed the floor like fallen snow.
Vittorio did not move. He stood like a monument of masculine authority, his hand resting gently on his son's shoulder.
"Lock the doors," Vittorio commanded softly.
Instantly, eight bodyguards in dark suits moved with military precision. The heavy brass-and-glass entrance doors to the concert hall were pulled shut and bolted. The interior doors leading to the auditorium were secured. The high-society guests—politicians, socialites, and mob associates alike—were corralled gently but firmly into the adjoining donor lounge.
"Vittorio... you've lost your mind," Bianca gasped, scrambling backward against the fallen banquet chairs. She held her hand against her stinging face, tears of pain and humiliation cutting through her makeup. "You struck your own sister! In public! The Commission will hear about this before the night is over."
"Let them hear," Vittorio murmured, taking a slow step toward her. The artistic tattoos on his neck and hands seemed to shift in the bright light, an elegant warning of the violence he harbored. "I want them to hear. I want them to know what happens to anyone who touches my blood."
Owen groaned, pushing a broken music stand off his chest. He spat a mouthful of crimson onto the pristine carpet, his arrogant face now a swollen, bruised ruin.
"You're a dead man, Vittorio," Owen wheezed, struggling to his knees. "I have loyal capos. I have the north side operations. You think you can humiliate us and walk away?"
"You have nothing," Vittorio said, his voice dropping an octave, becoming a chilling, raspy whisper. "You operate on my goodwill. You breathe because I allow it. And today, you decided to use that breath to insult a dead woman and assault a crippled boy."
"He's a weak link!" Owen shouted, desperate and terrified. "The boy is a liability! In our world, weakness is a death sentence. We were trying to toughen him up!"
Vittorio knelt down beside his son's wheelchair. He looked at Nico, whose wide, tearful eyes were taking in the destruction.
"Nico," Vittorio said gently. "Cover your ears for a moment, please."
Nico nodded obediently, pressing his small hands over his ears.
Vittorio stood back up. He unbuttoned the jacket of his three-piece suit, a casual, terrifying gesture that made Bianca whimper.
"You want to talk about liabilities, Owen?" Vittorio asked, walking slowly toward his brother-in-law. "Let's talk about the two million dollars missing from the shipping union accounts. Let's talk about the secret meetings you've been holding with the Russian syndicates at the harbor. You thought I didn't know?"
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Owen froze. The color drained completely from his rosy face. "That... that's a lie. I was negotiating new trade routes. For the family."
"You were selling my routes," Vittorio corrected him coldly. "And you, Bianca. You signed the transfer papers. You thought you could orchestrate a coup from within, and use my son's condition as the political excuse to have me removed."
