Chapter 7
The grand entrance hall of the lodge, meant to host the most opulent celebration in the state, now felt like a mausoleum. The soft jazz had been replaced by the ragged, painful wheezing of Mark pulling himself out of the splintered sleds, and the pathetic, whimpering sobs of Claudia buried beneath the ruined gift boxes.
The elite guests, ruthless criminals in their own right, held their breath. Nobody dared to look away, but nobody dared to meet Richard’s eyes.
Richard pulled a pristine white silk handkerchief from his breast pocket. He meticulously wiped a single drop of Mark’s blood from his knuckles, taking his time, letting the agonizing silence stretch until it was almost unbearable. He folded the handkerchief and placed it back into his pocket.
He slowly stepped forward, his polished shoes crunching over the shattered crystal of the wine glasses. He stopped precisely in the center of the room, looking down at his son and his daughter-in-law.
"A small punishment?" Richard's voice was quiet, scarcely louder than a whisper, but it carried an undeniable, lethal weight that pierced through the crackle of the fireplace.
Mark, clutching his bleeding face, looked up in terror. Claudia froze, her sobs hitching in her throat as she peered out from under the crushed wrapping paper.
"Is that what you call starving my blood?" Richard continued, his voice dropping an octave, vibrating with dark promises. "Is that what you call stripping a Bellacorte naked and throwing him to the winter wolves? A small punishment?"
"Dad... please..." Mark choked out, spitting a mouthful of blood onto the Persian rug. "It was... it was her idea. She hates the boy. She told the nanny to—"
"Shut your mouth!" Claudia shrieked, panic overriding her fear. She scrambled to her knees among the ribbons, her hair a wild, tangled mess. "You coward! You agreed to it! You said you didn't want the bastard ruining our image!"
Richard raised a single finger. The argument died instantly.
"I’ve got a small punishment for you too," Richard said, the quiet lethality of his tone making the words infinitely more terrifying than if he had screamed them.
Mark and Claudia exchanged a frantic, terrified glance. They knew exactly what Richard Bellacorte was capable of. They had seen men vanish for far less than harming his bloodline. The wealth, the clothes, the arrogant veneer—all of it was stripped away in an instant, leaving only two pathetic, fearful creatures trembling on the floor.
"Sal," Richard commanded, not looking away from his son.
The caporegime stepped forward instantly, his head bowed. "Yes, Boss."
"Clear the room. The party is over," Richard stated coldly. "Every guest leaves immediately. If anyone asks why, tell them the Bellacorte family had some trash to take out."
"Understood," Sal nodded, motioning sharply to the bodyguards.
"And Sal?" Richard added, his eyes narrowing as he stared at Mark. "Lock the doors. Take their phones. Nobody leaves this estate until I say they do. Put my son and his lovely wife in the basement."
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"Dad! No! Please!" Mark screamed, scrambling backward over the glass. "It’s freezing down there! There’s no heat!"
"I am aware," Richard replied, his face a mask of absolute stone. "You will find out exactly how cold it gets."
