Dorothea declared that birthday or not, she still had to serve the family.

The cinematic, bright sunlight pouring through the skylights illuminated the absolute devastation of the bookbinding cart. Harlan lay motionless beneath the scattered wooden pressing blocks and shredded paper. The illusion of his power, the arrogance that had allowed him to humiliate his wife and cheat on her with impunity, had been violently and permanently erased.

Dorothea Pierce stared at the ruined body of her son, her fair skin draining of all color. The sixty-five-year-old matriarch was paralyzed by a sudden, consuming terror. She realized that the D’Angelo family had not just broken an alliance; they were executing a purge.

Blinded by a manic, desperate need for leverage, Dorothea’s eyes darted frantically across the room. She bypassed her bleeding son and locked her gaze onto four-year-old Luca, who was standing trembling behind his mother.

“You monsters!” Dorothea shrieked, her voice cracking with hysteria.

She lunged forward, her luxurious formal gown tearing against her heels as she rushed across the floor. She ignored Elisa entirely, reaching her manicured, ring-covered hands aggressively toward the little boy. Her intent was clear—she was going to drag the child out of the room to use him as a shield against the Don’s wrath.

“Come here, Luca!” Dorothea demanded, grabbing the child roughly by the arm of his small suit jacket.

“No! Let him go!” Elisa screamed, grabbing her son’s other arm and trying to pull him back.

Luca shrieked in pain and terror as the two women pulled him in opposite directions, his small shoes sliding on the polished floor.

Marciano moved with the speed of a striking viper.

He closed the distance in two massive strides, his imposing, deeply masculine frame casting a dark shadow over the struggling women. He did not ask Dorothea to release the boy. He did not negotiate.

Marciano reached out with his large, tattooed hand and clamped his fingers around Dorothea’s wrist. His grip was an industrial vise. With a brutal, uncompromising display of raw strength, Marciano violently tore her hand entirely off the crying boy.

Dorothea gasped, the sudden, agonizing pressure nearly crushing her bones. She stumbled backward, looking up into the cold, dead eyes of the Mafia boss.