Chapter 22 - A House Divided
The silence inside the grand library was heavier than a tomb. Outside, the rain had finally begun to fall in earnest, drumming against the tall leaded glass windows like a volley of distant gunfire.
Salvatore had not killed Luca—not yet. Mafia tradition, ancient and Sicilian, demanded a conclave before a father spilled the blood of his firstborn. Under the rules of the old code, both factions had declared a twelve-hour ceasefire until midnight. Salvatore’s men occupied the west wing and the courtyard; Luca’s loyalists held the east wing, the armory, and the library.
Between the two sides stood a house held hostage.
Luca paced the Persian rug in front of the unlit fireplace, his tie loosened, a glass of untouched bourbon sitting on the oak desk. Clara sat curled in a leather armchair, clutching an old family album with trembling fingers, her eyes red and puffy from crying. Barnaby lay at my feet, his heavy head resting on my boots, his tail twitching restlessly in his sleep.
"Daniel was with me for ten years," Luca muttered, his voice ragged with disbelief. "Ten years. He took a bullet for me in Miami. And with one whistle from that bastard, he switches sides?"
"Daniel isn't the only one," Clara whispered, looking up through tear-stained lashes. "Uncle Marco called from New York twenty minutes ago. Salvatore contacted the Five Families three months ago, Luca. They’ve already recognized him as the legitimate head of the Commission. They see you as a temporary regent. They’re cutting off our supply lines along the eastern seaboard."
"They can try," Luca snarled, slamming his fist onto the desk so hard the crystal glass shattered, amber liquor pooling across the leather blotter. "I built the port facilities! I negotiated the unions! They don't have the contacts in the shipping yards, I do!"
"Luca," I said softly, stepping forward.
He stopped, turning his dark, frantic eyes toward me. The fury in his gaze melted slightly, replaced by an exhaustion that made him look ten years older.
"He wants you to lose your temper," I told him, keeping my voice steady and calm. "Your father didn't just come back for power. He came back to break you. If he wanted you dead, Daniel would have pulled the trigger on the terrace. He wants you to kneel. He wants to prove that everything you built is just a shadow of his legacy."
Luca looked at me, his chest rising and falling heavily. He walked over, gently reaching out to tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear. His fingers were cold, but his touch was tender. "You're too smart for this life, Elena. I should have sent you away when the gates fell."
"I’m not leaving," I said firmly, glancing down at Barnaby, who let out a soft huff as if agreeing. "Barnaby chose you. I chose you. We don't bow to ghosts."
The heavy oak doors of the library groaned open.
Salvatore walked in unaccompanied, leaning on his cane, a vintage silver cigarette case in his palm. Two of his guards remained stationed outside in the hall, but he stepped into Luca’s sanctuary as if he owned the air we breathed.
"Comforting the maid, Luca?" Salvatore mocked, clicking open the case and extracting a dark clove cigarette. "You always had your mother's soft heart. Sentimentality is a disease in our trade. It’s why you failed to kill your traitorous fiancée until she was already halfway out the door."
Luca’s hand dropped to his holster instantly. "Get out of my room."
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Salvatore didn't move. He struck a match, the flame illuminating the jagged burn tissue along his jawline. "I didn't come to argue, boy. Midnight is coming. The capos are assembling in the grand ballroom. Either you surrender the ledger and sign over the holding companies, or I hold an execution. You have two hours to decide which son you want to be: the one who lives to inherit a portion of my grace, or the one who rots beneath the kennel."
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