Chapter 7 - The Confrontation in the Foyer
When I walked back out of the west wing corridor into the grand foyer of the estate, the atmosphere was thick with unnatural silence.
My mother, Elena, was standing by the marble fireplace, calmly pouring herself a cup of Earl Grey tea from a silver pot. Salvatore the butler stood frozen near the library doors, staring at the gun in my hand with wide, terrified eyes.
Elena didn't even turn around immediately. She just took a slow sip of her tea, setting the china cup back down on the saucer with a delicate clink.
“I see you found the room, Dante,” Elena said smoothly, finally turning to face me. There was no remorse in her eyes—only a cold, arrogant pride. “You always were too inquisitive for your own good. Just like your father.”
“Where is my son?” I asked, my voice terrifyingly level as I raised the barrel of the Glock and pointed it directly at the center of her chest.
Elena raised an eyebrow, looking down at the gun barrel with mild, condescending amusement.
“Your son is safe, Dante. He is being raised by proper people—true blooded aristocrats who understand what it means to carry the Rossi name without the stain of common blood. That girl you married was never fit to be a mother, and you were too blind by foolish modern sentimentality to see it.”
“You cut him out of her,” I snarled, taking two steps closer across the marble floor. “You locked her in a dungeon like an animal, starved her, and stole her child.”
“I preserved this family!” Elena suddenly shouted, her aristocratic mask cracking to reveal the raving, fanatic tyrant underneath. “Your father built this dynasty on iron discipline and pure blood! I would rather see that girl die in the dark than let some nobody peasant taint the Rossi bloodline for the next century!”
She took a step toward me, chin held high.
“Go ahead, Dante. Shoot your own mother. Prove to the world that you’re just as savage as the enemies you spend your life fighting.”
I stared at her across the barrel of the gun. My finger tightened on the trigger. The hammer clicked back.
Behind me, from the dark doorway of the west wing hallway, a soft, shuffling sound echoed.
I lowered the gun just a fraction of an inch and turned my head.
Grace was standing there. She had used the metal railing of the hallway wall to support her skeletal weight, dragging herself out of the dungeon, her bare feet bleeding against the marble floor, her eyes burning with a fierce, unbreakable fire.
“You... you don't get to keep him,” Grace whispered, her voice trembling but carrying an iron resolve that echoed off the stone walls.
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Elena sneered, turning her back on me to face Grace with absolute contempt. “And what are you going to do about it, you pathetic little—”
Before my mother could finish her sentence, the heavy mahogany front doors of the estate were blown wide open with a deafening crash.
