Chapter 5
The heavy oak doors of the grand ballroom clicked shut, secured by three internal deadbolts.
Rocco turned back to his household staff. “Maria.”
“Yes, Don Rocco,” the housekeeper answered, stepping forward with tears of relief in her eyes.
“Take Noah upstairs to my private master suite,” Rocco commanded gently, handing his son down into her waiting arms. “Lock the blast doors. Turn on the cartoons. Make him warm milk with honey. He stays with you until I come through that door.”
Noah reached out, his small hand brushing Rocco’s stubbled jaw. “Dad… are you coming up soon?”
Rocco smiled—a rare, devastatingly handsome expression that softened the lethal angles of his face for half a second. He leaned down and pressed a warm kiss to the boy's forehead.
“Daddy has some business to finish downstairs, little bird,” Rocco murmured softly. “Go with Maria. You did very good tonight.”
“Okay, Dad,” Noah whispered, burying his face into Maria’s apron as the housekeeper carried him swiftly through the private service elevator.
The moment the elevator doors glided shut with a heavy chime, the last shred of light left Rocco’s eyes.
He turned back to the room. He unbuttoned the cuffs of his dark tailored jacket, rolling his crisp white sleeves up over his muscular, tattooed forearms with slow, rhythmic efficiency.
“Strip Marcus of his family signet ring,” Rocco ordered, his baritone dropping into an arctic register. “Strip his watch, his phone, and his weapons. Then bring him to the center of the floor.”
Two bodyguards lunged forward. Marcus struggled violently, but four hands pinned his arms behind his back. With a brutal pull, the lead guard twisted the gold Caruso signet ring off Marcus’s pinky finger, handing it directly to Rocco.
Rocco weighed the heavy gold band in his palm.
“Our grandfather gave this to you on your thirtieth birthday, Marcus,” Rocco murmured, stepping forward until he stood nose-to-nose with his cousin. “He told you that as long as you wore this crest, no man could spill your blood without answering to the family.”
“Rocco, we grew up together!” Marcus pleaded, the arrogance finally draining from his face as the cold reality of his treason pressed down upon his throat. “I took a bullet for your father in Chicago twenty years ago! You owe me that much! Call a formal Commission tribunal! Let the Five Families vote on my exile!”
“The Five Families don't govern my house, Marcus,” Rocco whispered, leaning in until his breath brushed Marcus’s ear. “I do.”
Rocco’s left hand struck like an uncoiling spring. His tattooed fingers clamped around Marcus’s throat with hydraulic pressure, lifting the two-hundred-pound capo until his leather oxfords barely scraped the limestone.
With a single, devastating forward surge, Rocco drove his right fist directly into Marcus’s solar plexus.
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The concussive strike knocked the breath from Marcus’s lungs in a violent, wheezing gasp. Before Marcus could collapse, Rocco followed through with a short, brutal hook to the man's jaw.
The crack of shattered bone echoed through the silent ballroom. Marcus spun through the air, crashing hard into an upholstered dining table, sending crystal stemware exploding across the floor as his bleeding body collapsed among the ruins.
