Chapter 3
The crisp, cinematic lighting of the entrance hall cast sharp, dramatic shadows across Winston’s deeply angular, masculine face. He did not speak. He did not yell. The terrifying stillness that washed over the veteran Mafia boss was infinitely more dangerous than any screamed threat.
Winston gently reached out and picked up the wooden airplane from Jamal’s trembling hands. He held it with profound reverence, his thumb brushing over the frayed red ribbon. He tucked the boy closer to his chest, ensuring the heavy camel-hair coat completely shielded Jamal from the prying eyes of the room.
From the center of the stunned crowd, Preston finally stepped forward. The thirty-eight-year-old white man, whom Winston had raised and given everything, looked annoyed rather than terrified. Preston adjusted his luxury silver watch, his crimson cable-knit sweater standing out loudly against the dark suits of the bodyguards.
Instead of rushing to check on his freezing, sobbing son, Preston stepped forward and casually reached his hand out, attempting to snatch the handmade toy from Winston’s grip.
"Dad, give me that," Preston said, his American accent laced with irritated condescension. "He knows he’s not supposed to bring his garbage into the main hall when we have high-tier donors arriving."
Winston did not hand over the toy. He remained perfectly still, a monument of lethal restraint.
"You locked a three-year-old boy in a blizzard," Winston whispered. The volume of his voice was incredibly low, a dark, rumbling baritone that carried to every corner of the silent, brightly lit hall. "Barefoot."
Preston sighed, rolling his eyes, entirely blind to the executioner standing before him. He slipped his hands into the pockets of his dark tailored chinos, leaning back on his suede loafers.
"Dad, It’s just a small punishment," Preston said, his tone dismissive and arrogant. "He ruined one of Victoria’s expensive rugs upstairs. He needs to learn discipline. You coddle him too much, and it makes him weak. We are trying to run a syndicate here, not a daycare."
Winston slowly looks at him.
The gaze was so devoid of human empathy, so utterly saturated with cold, calculating murder, that the two capos standing behind Preston instinctively took a large step backward to clear the blast radius.
"Discipline," Winston repeated softly, tasting the word like poison. "You dress my blood in rags. You put him in the snow. And you call it discipline."
"He’s fine, Winston," Victoria chimed in, stepping up beside her husband. Her emerald-green velvet dress swished as she crossed her arms, her diamond earrings flashing. "He was only out there for a minute. You are making a scene in front of the politicians."
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"A scene," Winston murmured, his eyes locking onto his son. "You want to talk to me about making a scene, Preston?"
"Just hand the boy over to the nanny, Dad," Preston demanded, losing his patience. He took a sudden, aggressive step forward, determined to assert his dominance in front of the organization.
