Chapter 8
The sheer terror in Thomas’s eyes was the only confirmation Valentina needed. The patriarch who had ruled through fear for decades was now nothing more than a frightened old man facing the executioner he had trained.
"You can't do this, Valentina," Thomas pleaded, his American accent thick with panic. He looked frantically at the surrounding capos, men who had once kissed his ring. "Paul! Dominic! You know me! I built this syndicate! Are you going to let a little girl execute your former boss?"
The capos did not move an inch. Their guns remained trained squarely on Thomas and the few remaining Hale bodyguards who had frozen in place.
"They know who signs their checks, Thomas," Valentina said coldly, dropping the honorific of 'father' entirely. "And they know who just exposed a plot to murder a child. There is no honor in your rebellion. Only cowardice."
"It was Marcus!" Thomas shouted, desperately pointing at the unconscious man bleeding in the cocktail station wreckage. "Marcus manipulated the audio! He fed me the lines! I never intended to actually hurt Ethan, I swear it on my life!"
"Your life is no longer a valid currency," Valentina replied, her volume remaining incredibly low, forcing the terrified man to hang on her every word. She handed the tablet to a nearby lieutenant. "Secure this device. Upload the audio file to the secure servers and distribute it to the heads of the five families. Let them hear exactly how the Hales do business."
"Yes, Boss," the lieutenant nodded sharply, stepping back into the shadows.
"Valentina, please," Thomas begged, falling to his knees on the wet tiles. His expensive suit trousers soaked up the spilled champagne and pool water. He clasped his hands together in a pathetic display of submission. "Exile me. Send me to Italy. Strip me of my assets. Just don't put a bullet in my head."
Valentina looked down at the kneeling man. The bright, natural light cast long, dramatic shadows across his face. She felt absolutely nothing. The moment he had locked his arm around her throat while her son drowned, he had severed the final biological tie between them.
"You are not going to Italy," Valentina stated, her voice as hard as diamond. "You are going to the basement of the downtown warehouse. You will sit in the dark, and you will wait for me to decide how publicly I want to dismantle your legacy."
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She turned her sharp, intimidating eyes to her men. "Take him."
Two massive bodyguards stepped forward, hauling the screaming, protesting former patriarch to his feet and dragging him roughly toward the service exit of the terrace.
