Chapter 4
Richard carried his grandson into the center of the entrance hall, his heavy, polished leather shoes leaving wet, snowy footprints across the pristine Persian rugs. The silence in the room was deafening, broken only by the crackle of the massive fireplace and the soft, ragged breathing of the freezing child in his arms.
"Get a medic," Richard ordered, not raising his voice, though the command cracked like a whip. "Now."
Two bodyguards immediately scrambled toward the rear of the lodge to fetch the family doctor. Richard stood perfectly still, cradling Noah. He gently reached down and took the small wooden airplane from the boy’s numb fingers. It was roughly carved, the wood uneven, the red ribbon frayed and dirty. To anyone else in the room, it was garbage. To Richard, it was an indictment of everyone standing before him.
Mark stepped forward, offering a nervous, placating smile that did not reach his eyes. He set his bourbon glass down on a side table, wiping his sweaty palms on his tailored trousers.
"Dad, I can explain," Mark began, his voice taking on a casual, dismissive tone, as if they were discussing a misbehaving dog. "The boy was causing a scene. He was filthy, running around the main hall where the guests were trying to enjoy the evening. We have an image to uphold."
Richard did not say a word. He just stood there, the heavy signet ring on his finger glinting in the firelight as he held the small wooden toy. He slowly raised his eyes, locking a lethal, dead-eyed stare onto his son.
"An image," Richard repeated softly. It was a dangerous, hollow sound.
"Yes, exactly," Mark said, mistaking his father's quietness for agreement. He stepped closer, reaching a hand out toward his father as if to take the boy. "He’s fine, Dad. He just needs to learn his place. It’s just a small punishment. I’ll have the nanny take him back down to his room."
"A small punishment," Richard echoed, tasting the words. "You put a three-year-old boy, barefoot and in rags, out into a blizzard. For bringing me a birthday gift."
"He stole the wood from the maintenance shed!" Claudia chimed in, stepping up beside her husband. She crossed her arms, her diamond jewelry sparkling. "And he ruined the floors. You have to be firm with children like him, Richard. He’s wild."
"Firm," Richard said softly.
He gently set Noah down on an oversized velvet armchair near the fire, making sure the heavy overcoat was tucked securely around the boy's shivering shoulders. He placed the wooden airplane safely on the armrest. Then, Richard turned his full attention back to Mark.
Mark let out a frustrated sigh, running a hand through his perfectly styled hair. "Dad, come on. Don't embarrass us in front of the capos over a bastard child. Give him to me."
Mark reached forward, his hand aggressively grabbing at Noah’s arm. Noah flinched violently, letting out a terrified shriek, burying his face into the fabric of the coat.
That was the spark that ignited the powder keg.
"Don't touch him," Richard growled, the warning vibrating through the floorboards.
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But Mark, blinded by his own arrogance and the audience of his peers, tightened his grip on the boy's arm. "I am his father, Richard. I'll handle my own son."
Richard’s expression went utterly blank. The terrifying, calcified composure of the veteran Mafia boss snapped into absolute focus. Time seemed to slow down in the grand hall.
