Chapter 3 - The Family TribunalThe barrel of my Sig Sauer didn't waver an inch. My finger rested lightly against the trigger, trembling not from fear, but from the immense, suffocating restraint it took not to pull it right then and there.
“Move one more step toward her, Mother, and I swear to God I will put a bullet through your shoulder,” I snarled, the sound reverberating off the cold concrete walls like thunder.
My mother stopped dead in her tracks. For the first time in my life, I saw a flicker of genuine shock cross her aging features, quickly replaced by a bitter, icy contempt. She tilted her chin up, looking at me with undisguised disappointment.
“Is this how you repay twenty-five years of sacrifice, Dante?” she asked, her voice dripping with venomous self-righteousness. “I built this syndicate into an empire while your father rotted in a federal prison. I kept our enemies at bay. And now you point a gun at your own mother over a stray cat you picked off the streets?”
“She is my wife,” I roared, stepping forward so the cold steel of my gun barrel was mere inches from her pristine white lapel. “And that is my son inside her. You didn't lock her away to protect the family. You locked her away because you wanted total control, didn't you? You wanted a child you could mold into a heartless monster without any interference from a mother who actually loved him.”
My mother didn't flinch. Instead, she let out a dry, chilling laugh that made my blood run even colder.
“Look around you, Dante,” she whispered, gesturing grandly to the barred windows and the bolted hospital bed. “Do you really think the Rossi elders—the capos who control the docks, the politicians in our pocket, the bankers who launder our billions—will ever accept an emotional, fragile girl from a middle-class background as the matriarch of this family? They whisper behind our backs already. They think we are growing soft. If you bring her out of this room as your acknowledged wife, the syndicate will tear you apart from the inside out within forty-eight hours.”
“Let them try,” I said, my voice deadpan and absolute.
I lowered the gun just enough to grab my mother roughly by the expensive silk of her jacket, yanking her forward until our faces were inches apart.
“You are going to turn around, walk up those stairs, and pack your bags,” I hissed into her ear. “You are leaving this estate tonight, and you are never coming back. If I ever see your face, or hear your voice, or catch wind of you trying to pull another one of your sick power plays... I won't care that you gave birth to me.”
My mother stared into my eyes, searching for any sign of hesitation, any trace of the obedient son she had raised. She found nothing. There was only a bottomless void of pure, unadulterated malice.
Slowly, a twisted smile crept onto her lips.
“You think banishing me solves your problems, Dante?” she whispered softly. “You think the men outside are loyal to you because you're the boss? Look outside that hallway. Look at who controls the inner perimeter guard right now.”
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Before I could process her warning, a sudden, sharp sound echoed from the front foyer upstairs—the distinct, unmistakable clack-clack of multiple assault rifles being unslid from shoulder straps.
Footsteps—dozens of heavy, combat-trained footsteps—began marching down the west wing corridor toward our exact location.
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