Chapter 3 - The Interrogation of Elena RossiThe heavy mahogany doors of the family study slammed shut with a concussive boom that rattled the antique crystal decanters on the sideboard.
I released my grip on my mother’s throat. She stumbled backward, coughing violently and clutching her neck, her gray wool suit jacket wrinkled and ruined. Yet, even as she gasped for air, her dark, calculating eyes remained entirely defiant. She straightened her lapels with a trembling hand, adjusting her posture with aristocratic pride.
"You choke your own mother over a stray dog and a bastard child?" she rasped, her voice dripping with venom. "Your father would be spinning in his mausoleum if he saw how soft you've become."
"My father died because he trusted traitors within his own inner circle," I replied, walking over to the heavy oak desk and pulling open the top drawer to retrieve a heavy, silver-plated Beretta. I checked the magazine with a practiced, mechanical snap, sliding it home with a sharp clack. "And right now, the biggest traitor in this house is standing right in front of me."
I turned around, pointing the barrel of the gun straight at the center of her chest.
My mother didn't even flinch. She simply crossed her arms, her lips curling into a cynical, mocking smile.
"Go ahead, Dante," she challenged, stepping closer until the cold steel rested against the fabric of her blouse. "Pull the trigger. Kill the woman who protected the Rossi name while you were playing diplomat in Europe. But when you pull that trigger, remember one thing: the Swiss guards holding your precious son have strict standing orders. If I am not checking in via encrypted satellite phone every twelve hours, the baby is transferred to an undisclosed black-site orphanage in Eastern Europe. You will never, ever find him."
The hammer of the gun clicked back under my thumb, the tension in the room snapping to a razor's edge. Every instinct screamed at me to end her life right there, to wipe her existence off the face of the earth for what she had done to Grace.
But the image of my emaciated, traumatized wife locked in that subterranean hell flashed through my mind, followed instantly by the terrifying thought of losing my newborn son forever.
Slowly, deliberately, I lowered the barrel.
A triumphant flash of arrogance crossed my mother's eyes, believing she had successfully broken my resolve.
"You think you've won," I said quietly, walking around the desk to stand directly in front of her. "You think holding my son gives you absolute immunity. But you forgot one fundamental rule of the Rossi syndicate, Mother: power is not inherited; it is seized."
Before she could process my words, I reached out, grabbed her arm with an iron grip, and shoved her hard down into the high-backed leather armchair behind the desk.
"What are you doing?!" she hissed, trying to stand up.
I slammed my hand down on the mahogany surface, trapping her in place. "You are no longer the matriarch of this estate. As of this second, you are a prisoner under house arrest. Your communications are cut. Your security detail has been dismissed and replaced by men who answer only to me."
I pulled out my encrypted satellite phone, dialed a direct extension, and pressed speakerphone.
"Marcus," I ordered the moment the line connected.
"Boss," my head of security replied instantly.
"Secure the perimeter of the estate. Lock down all flight logs, communications arrays, and private docks. No one enters or leaves without my direct authorization. Furthermore, I want a full tactical sweep of every secure server in the west wing. Find the encrypted satellite coordinates connecting to our Swiss assets."
"Understood, Dante. It will be done within the hour."
I severed the connection and dropped the phone onto the desk.
My mother’s face finally lost its arrogant composure. Panic flickered behind her cold eyes as she realized the absolute totality of my takeover.
"You can't lock me away in my own home," she whispered, her voice tightening with genuine fear. "The Capos will demand answers. The commission will—"
"The commission answers to the sitting head of the family," I interrupted, leaning down until our faces were inches apart. "And as of right now, I am the only head this family has. You will sit in this room, you will think about what you did to my wife, and you will pray to whatever god you still believe in that Marcus finds those Swiss coordinates before I decide your life isn't worth the cost of keeping you breathing."
I turned on my heel, ignoring her frantic shouting, and strode out of the study, locking the heavy oak doors behind me with a resounding click.
My next stop wasn't the underground cell. It was the medical wing.
Dr. Moretti, our family physician—a man who had served the Rossi syndicate for thirty years—was already waiting outside Grace's improvised bedroom, looking pale and sweating profusely under the harsh overhead fluorescent lights.
As soon as he saw me approaching down the hallway, he fell to his knees on the polished floor, pressing his palms together in a desperate plea for mercy.
"Dante... Boss... please," Moretti stammered, his voice trembling uncontrollably. "I had no choice! Your mother... she threatened my family! She said if I didn't sedate Mrs. Rossi and sign the fraudulent birth and medical records, my grandchildren would—"
I walked past him without breaking stride, my boots crunching against the floor. I stopped, looking down at the trembling doctor from over my shoulder.
"Get up, Moretti," I commanded coldly.
He scrambled to his feet, wiping sweat from his forehead with a trembling handkerchief.
"Is my wife going to survive?" I asked.
Moretti swallowed hard, nodding rapidly. "Y-yes, Boss. Physically, she is severely malnourished, dehydrated, and suffering from acute psychological trauma. With proper intravenous nutrition, round-the-clock medical care, and absolute rest, she will recover. But her emotional scars... those will take a very long time."
"She is getting the best care starting tonight," I said, my tone flat and unyielding. "And you, Moretti—you are going to spend the next forty-eight hours monitoring her vitals every fifteen minutes. If her condition deteriorates by even a fraction of a percent, I will personally throw you into the Mediterranean with your ankles tied to a concrete block."
"I won't fail you, Dante. I swear on my life!"
I nodded curtly and pushed open the bedroom door.
Grace was lying quietly on the soft mattress we had managed to move her to, an IV drip feeding saline and glucose into her frail arm. Dr. Moretti’s medical assistant sat quietly in the corner monitoring the heart-rate monitor, whose steady, rhythmic beep-beep-beep filled the quiet room.
I walked softly to the bedside, pulled up a wooden chair, and sat down.
Grace’s eyes fluttered open. She looked around the warm, softly lit room, confused for a second, before her gaze finally settled on me. A faint, heartbreakingly fragile smile touched her lips.
"Are we... are we safe?" she whispered, her voice barely audible over the hum of the medical equipment.
May you like
I reached out, taking her cold, frail hand in both of mine, pressing my lips gently against her knuckles.
"We are safe here, tesoro," I promised, looking deep into her amber eyes with absolute, unwavering conviction. "And I give you my word as a Rossi—before this week is over, I am going to find our son, bring him home, and lay every single person who touched you at your feet."
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