Chapter 7
Vincent turned his back on Patricia, leaving her weeping among the torn paper ferns and shattered picture frames. He walked toward the splintered wooden crates where Michael was just beginning to stir.
Michael groaned, clutching his face as he tried to push himself up on one elbow. His nose was broken, blood pouring steadily over his lips and dripping onto his expensive dinner suit. He blinked, his vision swimming, until he saw the polished leather shoes of his father-in-law standing inches from his face.
"Claire..." Michael mumbled, spitting blood. "Claire, help me..."
"Don't you dare speak her name," Vincent’s voice cut through the air like a razor.
Claire stood up, keeping Ethan securely wrapped in her arms. She walked slowly toward the wreckage, her high heels clicking deliberately on the hardwood. She stopped beside her father, her fair skin flushed with a cold, righteous anger.
"How long, Michael?" Claire asked, her American accent crisp and devoid of any lingering affection. "How long have you hated my son? How long have you looked at us and only seen a bank account?"
Michael looked up at his wife, his rosy skin pale and slick with sweat. "Claire, you don't understand... the pressure. The debts. My father left us with nothing but liabilities. The Caradonna trust has billions! We just needed a fraction of it to save the Reynolds name!"
"So you forged a document to brand your own son a bastard," Claire said, her voice trembling slightly, not from sadness, but from pure rage. "You stood there while your mother poured garbage on a three-year-old child."
"He's a Caradonna!" Michael spat, a sudden, bitter resentment flaring in his eyes despite his broken state. "From the day he was born, your father treated him like a crown prince, and treated me like a hired servant! I was never your husband in this house, Claire! I was just a sperm donor for the great Vincent Caradonna’s legacy!"
Vincent’s foot lashed out. He kicked Michael squarely in the chest, sending the younger man crashing back down into the splintered wood.
"You are not a servant, Michael," Vincent said, his voice dropping to a terrifying, gravelly whisper. "A servant works. A servant provides value. You are a parasite. You attached yourself to my daughter’s grace, and you tried to drain the life from my family."
Vincent looked at Robert Parker, who was standing quietly near the doorway.
"Robert," Vincent called out.
"Yes, Don Vincent."
"Take this trash out of my grandson's playroom," Vincent commanded, not breaking eye contact with Michael. "Secure them in the basement holding rooms. Strip them of their phones, their jewelry, and their dignity."
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Michael’s eyes widened in sheer panic. "The basement? Vincent, no! You can't hold us here! The police—"
"The police do not enter my estate," Vincent stated coldly. "And you do not leave it. Not until I decide what to do with a man who tries to steal my blood."
