Chapter 8
The name hung heavily in the cool, sterile air of the massive kitchen. The Barzini family wasn't just another syndicate; they were the oldest and most ruthless faction on the Commission. If Evelyn had truly secured their backing to orchestrate a coup, her cruelty toward Caleb wasn't just petty malice—it was a calculated provocation designed to force Malcolm into making a fatal, highly public mistake.
Malcolm didn't flinch. His broad-shouldered, muscular frame remained perfectly still. He gently took the water glass from Caleb's hands and set it aside on the granite island, ensuring the little boy was comfortable before turning his attention to his capo.
"Are you certain, Marcus?" Malcolm asked, his voice dropping into a low, dangerous register that demanded absolute truth.
"Yes, Boss," Marcus confirmed, nodding grimly. "We seized her personal phones before locking her in the east wing. Tech scrubbed the call logs. She spoke directly with Don Barzini himself this morning. She promised him full access to the Boston ports in exchange for their support in removing you from power. She claimed you were too weak, too distracted by the boy to lead."
Malcolm’s jaw clenched, the muscles ticking beneath his neatly trimmed beard. The sheer audacity of his aunt’s betrayal was staggering. She had been willing to sell out their entire empire just to sit on the throne herself.
"And Vincent?" Malcolm asked coldly.
"He was supposed to be the muscle," Marcus explained. "He was rallying the younger capos behind the scenes, promising them larger cuts of the territory once you were out of the picture. They were planning to move against you tonight, after the guests left."
A dark, humorless smile curled the corners of Malcolm's lips. "They underestimated how quickly I would burn this entire estate to the ground for my son."
"They did, Boss," Marcus agreed, though the anxiety in his eyes didn't fade. "But the problem remains. The Barzinis are already moving. Intelligence says they have hitters crossing the state line right now. They aren't going to let this go. They view your attack on Evelyn as a declaration of war against the Commission."
Malcolm turned back to Caleb. The little boy was watching them, his large brown eyes wide with confusion and residual fear. He didn't understand the violent politics of the underworld, but he could feel the heavy tension radiating from his father.
"Marcus," Malcolm said softly, his deep, piercing eyes locking onto the bodyguard. "Take Caleb to the secure bunker beneath the wine cellar. Have the medical team meet you there to check his ankle and monitor his heart. Do not leave his side under any circumstances."
"Understood, Boss," Marcus nodded firmly.
Malcolm leaned down, gently kissing Caleb's forehead. "I have to take care of some business, little man. Marcus is going to take you downstairs where it's cool and safe. The doctors are going to give you some medicine to make your ankle feel better."
"Are you coming with me, Daddy?" Caleb asked, his tiny hands gripping the lapels of Malcolm's tailored dark suit.
"Not right away," Malcolm replied gently, prying the small fingers loose with a reassuring smile. "But I will be down there before you know it. Be brave for me, okay?"
Caleb nodded slowly, trusting his father implicitly. Marcus stepped forward, carefully lifting the boy into his massive arms, mindful of the medical monitor clipped beneath Caleb's torn shirt, and carried him swiftly out of the kitchen.
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Alone in the vast room, Malcolm Ashford let the facade drop entirely. The loving father vanished, entirely consumed by the ruthless, deeply masculine Mafia boss who had ruthlessly conquered the eastern seaboard. He adjusted the cuffs of his pristine dress shirt, his heavy family signet ring catching the harsh fluorescent light.
"They want a war," Malcolm whispered to the empty room, his eyes burning with lethal intent. "I'll give them a massacre."
