Chapter 2
The heavy, iron-reinforced front doors of the lodge groaned open, sending a sharp rush of frigid mountain air sweeping through the grand entrance hall. Winston’s convoy had arrived.
At sixty-one years old, Winston commanded the room the moment his polished leather boots struck the floorboards. As a Black, veteran Mafia boss, he possessed a deeply masculine, overwhelmingly powerful, and terrifyingly intimidating presence. He was a king returning to his castle. He wore a heavy, impeccably tailored camel-hair overcoat, a rich black cashmere turtleneck, and perfectly pressed charcoal wool trousers. A thick gold watch gleamed on his wrist, a stark symbol of his absolute authority.
The chatter in the room died instantly. The white American guests and heavily armed bodyguards parted like the Red Sea, dropping their eyes in a show of ultimate, unwavering respect.
"Happy Birthday, Boss," a senior capo murmured, bowing his head slightly as Winston passed.
Winston offered a single, curt nod, his sharp, calculating eyes scanning the bright, cinematically lit room. He noted the roaring fireplace, the stacked gifts on the long table, and the nervous smiles of his associates. But his instincts, honed by decades of surviving betrayals, immediately sensed that the atmosphere was wrong.
His dark, piercing gaze swept past the coat racks and locked onto the far side of the room. He saw the heavy glass terrace doors. They were closed, but through the pristine, condensation-free glass, illuminated by the bright exterior floodlights, he saw a small, frantic shadow moving in the deep snow.
Winston’s heart stopped. He abandoned the welcoming line of capos and strode directly toward the glass.
He threw the heavy terrace doors open. The violent, freezing wind whipped into the hall, but Winston didn't flinch. There, shivering uncontrollably in the deep snowdrifts, was his three-year-old grandson. Jamal was barefoot, his lips turning blue, clutching his tiny arms around his ripped grey sweater.
"Jamal!" Winston roared, a sound torn from the deepest, most protective part of his soul.
Winston immediately tore off his heavy camel-hair overcoat. He stepped out into the freezing snow, ignoring the ruin of his polished leather boots, and scooped the freezing child into his arms. He wrapped the massive, luxurious overcoat tightly around Jamal, cocooning the boy in absolute warmth, and carried him back inside, kicking the terrace door shut behind him.
Winston carried his grandson to the center of the entrance hall, his chest heaving with a terrifying, apocalyptic rage. Jamal clung to his grandfather's black cashmere turtleneck, his tiny body wracked with violent, uncontrollable shivers.
The little boy reached out with a trembling, freezing hand, holding up the snow-covered wooden airplane he had managed to dig out of the drift.
May you like
"Grandpa…" Jamal sobbed, his voice cracking between breathless, agonizing hiccups. "… I made it for your birthday."
Winston looked at the crude, beautiful little wooden toy, and then at the ripped, stained clothes his grandson had been forced to wear. The bright colors of the room seemed to freeze. The silence in the lodge became absolute and deadly.
