Chapter 9
The heavy, oppressive tension in the great hall finally cracked as a deep, agonizing cough ripped through Noah’s tiny chest.
Richard immediately dropped to one knee, turning his full attention back to the boy. He pulled the heavy overcoat tighter around Noah’s fragile shoulders, his large, rough hands gently rubbing the child’s freezing arms to generate heat. The boy’s lips were still a terrifying shade of blue, and his shivering had not subsided.
"Vance," Richard barked without looking up. "Get the medic in here. Now. Have him bring heavy blankets and heated IV fluids. And tell the kitchen to warm up some broth."
"Right away, Boss," Vance replied, immediately raising his wrist radio to his mouth and sprinting down the hallway.
Richard lifted Noah effortlessly, carrying the boy to the massive leather sofa positioned directly in front of the roaring fireplace. He sat down, settling Noah onto his lap, holding him as close to the radiating heat of the flames as possible.
"You're safe now, little one," Richard murmured, his usually terrifying voice softening into a gentle, soothing rumble. "No one is ever going to hurt you again. I swear it on my life."
Noah pressed his face against Richard's crisp dress shirt, his tiny fingers weakly gripping the lapels of his grandfather's suit jacket. "Are they... are they gone, Grandpa?"
"They are gone," Richard promised, staring into the dancing orange flames of the hearth. "They will never touch you again."
Within moments, the lodge’s private medical contractor rushed into the room carrying a heavy black trauma bag. He immediately wrapped Noah in thermal foil blankets and began checking his vitals, his face grim. "His core temperature is dangerously low, Mr. Bellacorte. Mild hypothermia. A few more minutes out there, and..." The medic swallowed hard, not daring to finish the sentence. "We need to get warm fluids into him immediately."
"Do whatever it takes," Richard said, his jaw tightening so hard a muscle twitched in his cheek.
As the medic worked quickly to stabilize the boy, Richard sat back, his mind racing. The physical altercation was over, but the true war had just begun. Mark was his only son. He was the supposed heir to the Bellacorte empire, a multi-billion dollar syndicate that required absolute loyalty, iron discipline, and fierce protection of family.
Tonight, Mark had proven he possessed none of those traits. A man who would throw his own flesh and blood into the snow to appease a vain, cruel wife was not a man who could lead an empire. He was a weak, pathetic liability. And in Richard’s world, liabilities had to be eliminated.
May you like
Richard reached into his breast pocket and pulled out the small wooden airplane. He stared at the crude carvings, the unmistakable love and effort poured into the cheap wood. Noah had built this for him. Noah possessed the heart of a Bellacorte.
Mark had lost his right to the throne tonight. The only question left was how deeply Richard was willing to cut into his own family tree to fix the rot.
