Chapter 8
The bright, cinematic colors of the dining hall felt like a surreal backdrop to the execution of a mafia matriarch's freedom. The white American guests and capos remained absolutely silent, watching the ultimate display of Alessandro’s terrifying power.
"Take her down to the sub-basement holding cells," Alessandro ordered, his voice returning to its slow, measured, and dangerously calm cadence. "Strip her of her jewelry. Strip her of her phone. Lock her in cell number four."
"Alessandro, no! Please!" Bianca shrieked, her aristocratic arrogance completely shattering into raw, unadulterated terror.
The two bodyguards did not hesitate. They reached down and grabbed Bianca firmly by the arms, hauling her roughly to her feet. The ruined fabric of her expensive gown tore slightly under their iron grips.
"And Marcus," Alessandro added, pausing to look the bodyguard dead in the eye. "Take the bowl with her. She does not eat until she finishes what she poured for my daughter."
"Understood, Mr. Vitale," Marcus nodded grimly. He reached down with his free hand and picked up the heavy, dented metal dog bowl from the marble floor.
"You can't do this to me! I am blood! I am family!" Bianca screamed hysterically, thrashing her legs wildly as the two massive men began to drag her toward the exit. Her high heels scraped loudly against the floorboards. "The capos won't stand for this! Tell him! Tell him he's insane!"
She looked desperately toward the men seated at the long mahogany table, begging for an intervention. Not a single man met her gaze. They stared firmly at their plates or the walls, entirely unwilling to cross the veteran Mafia boss standing at the head of the room.
The bodyguards dragged the screaming, sobbing woman through the heavy double doors. Her cries echoed shrilly down the long, immaculate corridors of the estate until the doors slammed shut, plunging the dining hall back into a heavy, suffocating silence.
Alessandro stood quietly for a moment, letting the reality of his absolute dominance settle over the room. He smoothed the cuffs of his dress shirt, the intricate tattoos on his arms moving fluidly beneath the fabric.
He then turned his attention back to his three-year-old daughter.
Sophie was sitting in his large leather chair, her tiny hands gripping the armrests. Her blue eyes were wide, taking in the violent removal of her great-aunt.
Alessandro walked over to her, his cold, intimidating demeanor vanishing instantly. He knelt beside the chair, resting his large hands gently over hers.
"Are you okay, Sophie?" Alessandro asked softly, his raspy voice filled with profound tenderness.
"She was very loud, Daddy," Sophie whispered, a single tear escaping her rosy cheek.
"I know, little bird," Alessandro murmured, using his thumb to gently wipe the tear away. "But she is gone now. She is never, ever going to bother you again."
"Can I have real food now?" Sophie asked innocently, her stomach rumbling softly.
Alessandro let out a small, genuine chuckle, a sound that rarely escaped his lips. "You can have whatever you want in the entire world. Chef!"
The head chef, who had been trembling near the kitchen doors, practically sprinted into the room. "Yes, Mr. Vitale!"
"Make my daughter a fresh plate. The best cut of steak you have, and extra potatoes," Alessandro ordered. "And bring her a large bowl of strawberry ice cream."
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"Right away, sir!" the chef bowed, scrambling back to the kitchen.
Alessandro stood up, his hand resting affectionately on Sophie’s head. But as he looked back down the length of the dining table, his sharp eyes narrowed. The domestic dispute was handled, but his instincts, honed by years of warfare, were screaming that something else was terribly wrong.
