Chapter 5 - WHISPERS IN THE GLASSHOUSE
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The splintered fragments of the doorframe lay scattered across the oriental rug like broken bones.
Elena stepped back abruptly, her hand flying to the pearls at her throat as if they could shield her from her son’s fury.
Gabriel lowered his boot, his breathing steady despite the violence of his entrance.
The dark stains on his white cuffs were unmistakable.
Behind him, Marco stood with his hands folded in front of his belt, his expression blank, professional, and terrifying.
Gabriel walked into the room, stepping over the broken wood without looking down.
His presence seemed to suck all the air out of the salon.
“You locked the door,” Gabriel said, his voice flat, devoid of any warmth.
“Gabriel, I was merely having a private conversation with your wife,” Elena said, her voice rising in defensive pitch.
“I was trying to explain the reality of her position before she ruined Nicholas’s reception entirely.”
Gabriel stopped three feet in front of his mother.
He was a head taller than her, his shadow completely enveloping her burgundy silk dress.
“Arthur talked,” Gabriel said simply.
Elena’s eyes darted toward the hallway, a flicker of genuine terror finally cracking through her arrogant composure.
“Arthur is a liar,” Elena stammered, smoothing the front of her gown with trembling fingers.
“He was probably working for the Marchesi family on the West Side.”
“He would say anything to save his own skin.”
“He didn't say it to save his skin, Mother,” Gabriel replied, his voice terrifyingly quiet.
“He said it because Marco took four of his fingers before I even asked the first question.”
I felt a cold shiver run down my spine, but I kept my eyes fixed on my husband’s back.
This was the man Chicago feared.
This was the monster who kept the city’s concrete foundations quiet and obedient.
Yet, as he stood there dripping another man’s blood, he was standing between me and the woman who had tormented me for six months.
Gabriel reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out a small velvet pouch.
He untied the gold drawstring and tipped the contents into his palm.
A heavy gold signet ring with an emerald serpent fell into his hand.
It was Elena’s personal seal, the one she used to sign official syndicate paperwork in her late husband’s name.
“Arthur had this in his pocket,” Gabriel said, holding the ring between his thumb and forefinger.
“He said you gave it to him as a token of authority to show the guards at the gate.”
“You told him to take the silver to a pawnshop in Milwaukee and melt it down.”
Elena’s breath hitched in her chest.
“Gabriel... you cannot believe a common thief over your own mother.”
“The silver was in our family before you were born!”
“The silver was our legacy!”
“The silver belongs to Catherine,” Gabriel interrupted, his voice cutting like a razor through her excuses.
Elena blinked in utter disbelief.
“What did you say?”
Gabriel turned slightly, extending his bloody hand toward me.
“The moment Catherine signed our marriage certificate, half of the Romano estate became hers by law.”
“The nineteen-twenty-two service was gifted to the head of this house by my grandfather.”
“I am the head of this house.”
“And I gave that service to my wife on our wedding day.”
My breath caught in my throat.
He had never mentioned the silver to me.
He had never given me any family jewelry beyond the plain platinum band resting on my left finger.
Yet he spoke with an authority so absolute that even his mother could not dispute the claim.
“You gave our sacred crest to... to a builder’s daughter?” Elena choked out, tears of humiliation burning in her eyes.
“I gave it to a woman who bled on the concrete to protect it,” Gabriel countered, stepping past her to reach my chair.
He looked down at the fiberglass splint wrapping my right hand.
His dark eyes softened for an instant, a silent acknowledgment of the pain I was carrying.
“Marco,” Gabriel called out without turning around.
“Yes, Don Gabriel?”
“Escort my mother to her private suite on the third floor.”
Elena gasped, clutching her hands together.
“You are confining me to my rooms during Nicholas’s wedding?”
“I am confining you to your rooms until I decide whether you spend the rest of your life in a convent in Naples or an asylum in upstate New York,” Gabriel said, his words dropping like lead weights onto the floor.
“Gabriel, please!” she cried out, her composure entirely shattered.
“Your father would never have allowed you to treat me this way!”
“My father is dead, Mother,” Gabriel said, cold as stone.
“And unlike my father, I do not let anyone threaten my wife.”
“Not the Marchesi family.”
“Not Arthur.”
“And especially not you.”
Marco stepped into the room, his massive hand gesturing politely but firmly toward the door.
“Donna Elena. If you please.”
Elena looked at her son, then at me sitting in the velvet chair.
Pure, venomous hatred burned in her gaze, but she had lost every shred of leverage she possessed.
She turned on her heels and swept out of the ruined doorway, her sobs echoing down the empty gallery.
Gabriel stood alone with me in the quiet room.
He pulled a clean linen towel from the side table and carefully wiped the remaining blood from his knuckles.
Then he looked at me, his gaze heavy with an unasked question.
“Are you ready to go home, Catherine?” he asked softly.
I looked at my bandaged hand, then into the eyes of the man who had just dismantled his own mother for my sake.
May you like
“Yes,” I whispered.
“Take me home.”
