My father had lunged forward, his hand striking Nico across the face with such force that his head snapped violently to the side. The sound alone was enough to make several people flinch.
He stood there, chest heaving, eyes blazing with uncontrollable fury. Don Salvatore Valente, the man who had once held the Commission in his grip, who had built the Valente name into something that made other Families lower their voices when they said it. The image of everything I had sacrificed, for this man, for this marriage, for this alliance, seemed to ignite something primal inside him. And now, seeing it all reduced to this humiliation, this betrayal, was more than he could bear.
"She gave up her womb for you!" my father roared. "She gave you status, gave you the Valente name, gave you territory you never could have held on your own, and this is how you repay her?!"
Nico's face flushed red, not from the pain of the slap, but from the humiliation of being struck in front of every capo, associate, and guest in the room. His pride shattered, his composure cracked. I saw his left hand move, the cuff tugged down over his wrist in that old, reflexive way he'd never been able to shed.
He waved his arm sharply, his voice rising in anger.
"Security!" he shouted. "Get this old man out of here!"
At once, several enforcers moved forward like trained hounds responding to a command. They surrounded my father in an instant, their eyes cold, their stances aggressive, fists clenched as they prepared to drag him away by force.
The same men who had been all smiles earlier, helping my father carry boxes, setting up decorations in the estate's grand hall, laughing and chatting as if they were still loyal to the Valente house, turned on him in an instant, their expressions hardening as if a switch had been flipped. These were men my father had once commanded with a single look. Now they answered to the name on the deed, not the blood in the room.
"You lay a finger on me and you'll regret it," my father warned, his voice sharp and unyielding, the authority he once carried still echoing in his tone. Even weakened, even stripped of operational control, Don Salvatore Valente's voice could still make the air heavier.
One of the guards scoffed, clearly unimpressed. "Why wouldn't we? Who do you think you are?" he sneered, taking a step closer, his posture deliberately provocative.