Chapter 9
The absolute finality of Nico’s decree hung over the bright, sunlit ballroom like a heavy executioner's blade. The cinematic colors of the room felt like a grotesque, mocking contrast to the dark, violent reality that was about to unfold.
Nico looked down at Marcella. She was weeping hysterically, her luxurious white wedding gown stained with spilled champagne and her own blood. The arrogant bride had been entirely reduced to a pathetic, cornered animal.
"Nico, please," Marcella sobbed, her hands clasped together in a desperate plea. "I am your blood. We grew up together. You can't kill me. I'll leave the country. I'll surrender all my shares in the trust. You will never see me again. Please, brother, show me mercy."
"Mercy," Nico repeated, the word tasting like ash in his mouth.
He slowly reached down and picked up Vivia. He lifted the six-year-old girl effortlessly into his left arm, holding her securely against his chest. The little girl wrapped her arms around his neck, burying her face into his shoulder, completely exhausted by the trauma of the afternoon.
"You slapped my daughter," Nico said softly, looking directly into Marcella's terrified blue eyes. "You murdered her mother. You sold our secrets to our enemies. And you stand in my house, wearing white, asking for mercy."
He turned his attention to his head of security.
"Rafe," Nico commanded, his voice dropping into a register of pure, concentrated ice.
"Yes, Boss," Rafe responded instantly, his hand resting firmly on the heavy firearm concealed beneath his professional suit jacket.
"Take her to the soundproof holding cells beneath the estate," Nico ordered, his American accent sharp and unyielding. "Strip her of her jewelry. Lock her in the dark. Do not allow anyone to speak to her or give her water."
"No! Please, Nico, no!" Marcella screamed, thrashing violently as Rafe hauled her roughly to her feet. Her designer heels scraped uselessly against the marble floor.
"What are you going to do with her, Boss?" Rafe asked, holding the struggling woman with ease.
"I am going to let her sit in the dark for three days," Nico replied coldly, not even looking at his sister as she was dragged toward the service elevators. "I want her to feel the exact same terror my wife felt before she died. And then... I will deal with her personally."
As Marcella’s desperate screams faded down the long, marble corridors, Nico turned his terrifying, deeply masculine presence back toward the remaining wedding guests. The hundreds of White American relatives and associates stood absolutely frozen, waiting for the king's next command.
"The wedding," Nico announced, his voice carrying effortlessly across the silent room, "is canceled."
He looked at the senior capos who had averted their eyes earlier. He knew exactly who the traitors were. He didn't need a tribunal.
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"Seal the estate gates," Nico ordered his remaining security detail. "No one leaves this property tonight. We are going to have a very long, very painful conversation about loyalty."
The lockdown was immediate. Heavily armed men moved to secure the massive wooden doors, locking the wealthy guests inside the bright, beautiful ballroom. The party had officially transformed into an interrogation chamber.
