Chapter 8
The atmosphere inside the Hayes family’s primary safe house was suffocatingly tense. The luxurious, heavily guarded penthouse was supposed to be a sanctuary, but it felt more like a tomb.
Michael paced frantically back and forth across the expensive Persian rug, wincing with every step. His chest was tightly wrapped in medical bandages to stabilize his fractured collarbone and broken ribs. His fair, rosy skin was pale and slick with a nervous sweat. He was no longer the arrogant, commanding husband who had gripped his wife's arm; he was a terrified animal trapped in a cage.
Sitting on a velvet sofa nearby was Jessica. She looked haggard, her elegant posture completely ruined. She was holding an ice pack to her bruised shoulder, her eyes darting nervously toward the reinforced doors every time a guard walked past.
"You stupid, arrogant woman!" Michael suddenly exploded, turning his wrath entirely on his mother. "Why did you have to touch those girls? Why couldn't you just leave them alone?"
"Don't you dare raise your voice to me, Michael!" Jessica shrieked back, her American accent shrill and defensive. "I was disciplining them! They were acting like feral animals in front of the Donati family! I was trying to maintain our reputation!"
"You ruined our reputation!" Michael roared, grabbing a crystal decanter from the bar and hurling it against the wall. It shattered violently, sending amber liquid splashing across the silk wallpaper. "Roland Carter doesn't care about discipline! He cares about his blood! You just declared war on the most ruthless man on the East Coast over a plate of shrimp!"
"You didn't do anything to stop him!" Jessica cried, pointing an accusing finger at her son. "He threw a tray at you, and you fell over like a coward! You should have shot him right there in the ballroom!"
"If I had pulled a gun, we would both be dead on that floor right now," Michael spat, leaning heavily against the bar, gasping in pain as his ribs flared. "Roland’s men were already moving. He was daring me to draw."
The heavy oak doors of the penthouse study swung open, and Salvatore Hayes walked in, leaning heavily on his silver-tipped cane. The elderly patriarch looked at the shattered decanter and the bickering mother and son with profound, absolute disgust.
"Uncle Salvatore," Michael gasped, straightening up despite the pain. "Did you speak to him? Did he accept the restitution?"
Salvatore slowly shook his head, his cloudy eyes filled with a grim, terrible certainty. "He refused the money. He refused the apology."
"What does he want?" Jessica asked, her voice dropping into a terrified whisper.
"He wants your head, Michael," Salvatore stated bluntly, the words falling like heavy stones in the quiet room. "He told me the only negotiation he will accept is planning your funeral."
Michael’s legs gave out. He collapsed into a leather armchair, burying his face in his hands. The reality of Roland Carter’s wrath was inescapable. There was no amount of money or political maneuvering that could save a man marked for death by the Carter family.
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"We have to hit him first, Uncle," Michael pleaded desperately, looking up. "We have to send everything we have to his estate. If we take out Roland, his capos will fall in line."
"You are a fool, Michael," Salvatore sighed heavily. "Roland is already ten steps ahead of you. The war hasn't just started. We've already lost the first battle."
