Chapter 8
Ethan froze beneath the tangled aluminum frames. The sheer impossibility of the statement seemed to paralyze his brain faster than the physical trauma of his broken jaw.
"You're lying," Ethan gasped, his chest heaving. Blood dripped from his nose onto his expensive, ruined tuxedo shirt. "My father built the Cole syndicate! He wouldn't betray his own blood to a woman!"
"Your father is a businessman," Alessandra corrected him, her voice devoid of emotion, operating with the terrifying, clinical precision of a surgeon. "He recognized that his son was an ambitious idiot and his daughter was a liability. When he realized you were planning to move against the Ashford empire with my cowardly husband, he understood that you were going to drag his entire family into a war he could not win."
Vanessa let out a sharp, hysterical shriek. "No! Daddy wouldn't do that! Daddy promised me the penthouse!"
"Your father traded your lives for exclusive shipping rights through the Newark ports," Alessandra stated bluntly, crushing the last ember of hope in the room. She looked down at Ethan, who was staring at her with wide, horrified eyes. "He disowned you, Ethan. He told me to clean up the mess. You have no army. You have no backup. You are nothing but trash littering my garage."
Alessandra turned her attention away from the broken man and looked toward her loyal parking supervisor.
"Michael," Alessandra called out, her tone shifting from a lethal threat to a command of absolute authority.
"Yes, Boss," Michael responded immediately, stepping forward while keeping Tobin safely shielded behind him.
"Take my son," Alessandra ordered gently, her eyes softening for a microsecond as she looked at the exhausted three-year-old. "Take him upstairs to my private suite. The east wing is fully secured by my personal guard. Draw him a warm bath, order him whatever he wants from the kitchen, and do not leave his side until I arrive."
"You have my word, Mrs. Ashford," Michael said firmly. He adjusted his grip on the little boy. "Nobody gets within fifty feet of that door."
"Mommy?" Tobin whispered, his small voice echoing over the quiet hum of the garage ventilation. He peeked over Michael's shoulder, clutching his stuffed shark tightly. "Are you coming?"
Alessandra walked over, her polished heels clicking rhythmically, and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to her son’s forehead. "I will be right there, my love. Mommy just has to finish taking out the trash. Go with Michael. You are safe now."
Tobin nodded sleepily, the exhaustion of the nine-hour ordeal finally overtaking his adrenaline. He rested his head against Michael’s shoulder and closed his eyes. The burly supervisor turned and walked swiftly toward the secure private elevator, accompanied by two of Alessandra’s heavily armed capos.
As the steel doors slid shut, sealing her son away from the violence and betrayal, the maternal softness vanished entirely from Alessandra’s face. The mask of the Mafia boss slammed back into place, harder and colder than before.
She turned back to the three traitors remaining on the garage floor.
Gavin was still kneeling among the scattered hundred-dollar bills, weeping silently into his hands. Sybil sat slumped against the pillar, staring blankly at the concrete. Vanessa was shaking uncontrollably, her hands pressed over her face.
"Stand them up," Alessandra ordered her remaining capos.
The two guards moved forward with brutal efficiency. They grabbed Gavin by the lapels of his ruined tuxedo and hauled him to his feet. Another capo grabbed Sybil by the arm, forcing the elderly woman to stand despite her protests.
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"Alessandra, what are you going to do?" Gavin sobbed, his legs trembling so violently he could barely support his own weight. "Please… I’m your husband. I’m the father of your child."
"You lost the right to those titles the moment you packed his trunk," Alessandra whispered.
