Chapter 6
Domenico stood perfectly still amid the scattered velvet ropes and overturned ottomans. The bright, vivid light from the skylights cast a sharp, unyielding illumination over his handsome, angular face. He slowly turned his head, his cold, sharp eyes fixing directly on Valentina as she trembled among the spilled silk cushions.
He shifted Ruby gently in his arms, his large, tattooed hand stroking the back of the little girl's head with a tenderness that starkly contrasted with the brutal violence he had just committed. He took one slow, deliberate step toward his wife.
When he spoke, his voice was dead calm. He maintained his low volume, speaking slowly, measuring out each syllable with a lethal, chilling precision that carried to every corner of the silent atrium.
"You took her chair," Domenico stated, pausing for a fraction of a second, his intimidating eyes locking onto Valentina’s wide, terrified gaze. "And packed her room."
Valentina pushed herself up on her elbows, her fair, rosy skin now bearing the harsh, dark red imprint of his hand. Her diamond jewelry clicked nervously against the leather ottoman beneath her. The arrogance that had defined her presence moments before was entirely eradicated.
"Now," Domenico continued, his voice dropping into a register that promised absolute ruin. "Pack yours."
Valentina’s face became utterly frightened. Her lips parted, but her voice failed her. The reality of his command settled over her like a suffocating blanket of ice. This was not a temporary banishment; this was an eviction from the empire.
"Domenico... please," Valentina finally managed to whisper, her American accent cracking with pure panic. She looked up at him, her eyes pleading for a mercy she had never shown his child. "I am your wife. My family... the Cole syndicate... you can't just throw me out. It will start a war."
"There is already a war," Domenico replied slowly, his gaze drifting to the unconscious, bleeding form of Marcus. "And you have already lost."
He did not raise his voice, nor did he offer any further explanation. He simply looked down at her with a profound, terrifying emptiness. The loose strands of wavy hair fell slightly over his forehead, making him look like a dark, fallen romantic hero standing amidst the wreckage of his own house.
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"You have ten minutes," Domenico said, his tone final and absolute. "If you are not gone, you will not leave at all."
He turned his back on her, holding his daughter securely against his unbuttoned shirt, and began to walk slowly toward the grand staircase, leaving his wife to scramble among the ruins of her own arrogance.
