Chapter 8 - Judgment in the East Wing
Arthur collapsed heavily onto his knees, gasping for breath, glaring up at Mateo with unconcealed hatred.
“You... you were waiting for me,” Arthur wheezed, blood pooling on the polished floorboards.
Mateo stepped over the threshold, walking slowly toward his oldest lieutenant. Every step radiated a terrifying, controlled violence. He didn't say a word until he stood directly over the wounded man.
“Twenty-two years, Arthur,” Mateo said softly, his voice barely above a whisper. “You taught me how to hold a pistol. You stood at my father’s funeral. And you sold us out to Genoa for a piece of a pie that would have killed you within a month anyway.”
“You’re destroying everything we built, Mateo,” Arthur spat, coughing up a streak of blood. “You’re making us soft!”
“No,” Mateo replied coldly, raising his pistol and pressing the cold steel barrel directly against Arthur’s temple. “I’m surviving. Which is something you forgot how to do.”
Genevieve scrambled backward, turning away, squeezing her eyes shut as the muffled crack of a single gunshot echoed through the expansive room, followed by the heavy thud of a body hitting the floor.
Silence descended once again on the east wing. A thick, suffocating silence.
Warm hands gripped her shoulders, gently turning her around.
Mateo’s face was inches from hers. There was blood on his pristine white shirt cuff—not his own. His pale blue eyes burned with an intense, raw emotion she hadn't seen there before.
“Are you hurt?” Mateo demanded, his voice rough, slipping past his usual icy composure.
Genevieve looked up at him, her chest rising and falling rapidly. She looked past his shoulder at the dark form lying on the floor, then back into his eyes.
May you like
“I’m not hurt,” she whispered, her voice finally steady. “I’m just tired of your family reunions, Mr. Viscanti.”
A faint, breathy sound escaped Mateo’s lips—half a laugh, half a sigh of profound relief. He slid his arm around her waist, pulling her up from the floor and holding her against him with a fierce, protective grip that left no room for argument.
