Chapter 8
The grand ballroom of the Bellandi estate was paralyzed by the shocking confession. The wealthy, White American relatives and capos whispered frantically among themselves, their crisp accents blending into a chaotic, buzzing hive. The matriarch of the family had just publicly admitted to orchestrating the assassination of the Boss's wife.
Nico stood perfectly still. The devastating grief that had haunted him for two years was entirely burned away, replaced by an explosive, blood-chilling wave of primal, protective fury.
He looked down at the folded, handwritten note resting on the marble floor.
"Rafe," Nico ordered softly, not taking his eyes off his sister. "Pick it up."
The head of security released his grip on Marcella’s shoulder for a fraction of a second, swiftly reaching down to snatch the folded paper from the floor. He stood back up, securing Marcella once more, and handed the note to Nico.
Nico unfolded the paper. The elegant, familiar handwriting of his late wife, Elena, covered the page. The ink was slightly smudged, written in a desperate hurry.
Nico read the words in silence. The bright, cinematic lighting of the room caught the subtle tightening of his jaw, the slight flare of his nostrils.
"What does it say, Boss?" Rafe asked quietly, sensing the apocalyptic shift in Nico's demeanor.
"It says," Nico murmured, his voice loud enough for the paralyzed room to hear, "that my wife discovered Marcella was skimming millions from the union pension funds. It says that Marcella was conspiring with the Falcone syndicate to orchestrate a hostile takeover of our southern territories."
A collective gasp swept through the crowd of capos. Embezzlement was a severe crime; conspiring with a rival family was high treason, punishable by immediate execution.
"Lies! They are all lies!" Marcella shrieked from the floor, struggling violently against Rafe. "She forged the documents on that drive! She was trying to frame me because she was jealous of my position in the family!"
"Elena didn't care about your pathetic position," Nico replied, his voice a dead, emotionless void. He slowly folded the note and placed it securely into the inner pocket of his tailored suit. "She cared about her daughter. She cared about the truth."
He looked around the room, his sharp, intimidating eyes locking onto the faces of several senior capos who had always been unusually close to Marcella.
"Who else knew?" Nico demanded. His voice boomed across the ballroom, shaking the crystal chandeliers above. "Who else in this room helped her cover up the murder of my wife?"
The silence that followed was suffocating. Several men looked away, refusing to meet his gaze. The sweat beading on their fair, rosy faces was all the confirmation Nico needed. The rot went far deeper than his sister. It infected the highest echelons of his own command structure.
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"Nico, you can't just execute your own sister based on a ghost's letter!" an older uncle shouted from the back of the room, stepping forward nervously. "We need a tribunal! We need to examine the evidence on that drive!"
"There will be no tribunal," Nico declared, turning his cold, lethal gaze toward the uncle. "This is not a democracy. This is my house."
