Chapter 3
Salvatore slowly turned his entire body toward Hattie, his gaze so piercing it seemed to drop the temperature of the bright midsummer afternoon. He took one deliberate step forward, his polished shoes silent against the stone tiles.
"I am going to ask you once, Hattie," Salvatore said, his volume remaining deceptively low, his words spaced with calculated, terrifying pauses. "Why… is there a chain… on my mother?"
Before Hattie could stammer out an excuse, Nolan stepped between them. The forty-two-year-old associate puffed out his chest, his expensive tailored suit shifting as he squared his shoulders. Nolan had always deeply resented Salvatore’s rapid ascent to power, and the presence of the forty guests emboldened his fragile ego.
"Back off, Sal," Nolan warned, his American accent thick with forced bravado. "This is family business. Hattie is just trying to secure the perimeter."
"You are standing in my way, Nolan," Salvatore whispered smoothly. "Move."
"Or what?" Nolan sneered, stepping closer.
Without warning, Nolan violently shoved Salvatore backward. Salvatore’s feet slid an inch on the stone, but he barely lost his balance. Emboldened by the lack of immediate retaliation, Nolan followed the shove by throwing a heavy, closed-fist punch directly across Salvatore’s cheek.
The sound of knuckles striking bone echoed across the patio. Several female guests gasped, clutching their jewelry. Anthony Russo, the fifty-eight-year-old senior capo standing near the garden doors in his three-piece suit, narrowed his eyes but did not intervene. He knew exactly what was about to happen.
Salvatore’s head turned slightly from the impact. A faint redness appeared on his fair, rosy cheek, contrasting with his dark stubble. He slowly turned his face back to Nolan.
Nolan smirked, adjusting his luxury wristwatch, thoroughly convinced he had just asserted dominance. "She eats when she answers the question, Sal. That’s how it works now."
Salvatore did not raise a hand to check his cheek. His expression became completely, terrifyingly empty. The charming, romantic movie-star aura evaporated, leaving behind a cold, soulless predator.
"You hit me," Salvatore said, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. "In front of my daughter."
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"I’ll do a lot more than hit you if you don't step down," Nolan barked, though a bead of sweat now formed on his fair forehead.
"You have made a grave miscalculation," Salvatore replied softly.
