Chapter 5 - The ResurrectionThe room went dead silent.
Walking through the double doors was Lorenzo DeLuca.
He wore a fresh white shirt, though the top buttons were open, revealing the heavy white bandages wrapped around his throat and chest. His dark hair was slightly damp, his face pale from blood loss, but his dark eyes radiated an aura of absolute, terrifying dominance that made the air in the room freeze.
Behind him walked Dr. Ricci, carrying a medical bag, and Sophia Rossi, holding little Emma’s hand securely.
Vincent staggered backward until his spine hit the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the courtyard. He stared at Lorenzo as if looking at a ghost risen straight from the grave.
“L-Lorenzo...?” Vincent whispered, his voice trembling uncontrollably. “How... how is this possible? The sedative... the cellar... the guards...”
“You’re sloppy, Vincent,” Lorenzo said softly, his voice echoing smoothly across the spacious office as he walked slowly toward the desk. “You thought a cheap needle and an old iron chair could wipe out forty years of the DeLuca empire. You thought you could inherit my seat before my body was even cold.”
Vincent looked frantically around the room at the capos standing near the door. “Wait! Brothers! He’s losing his grip! He’s bringing maids and children into family business! Look at him—he’s weak!”
None of the capos moved. They stood like stone statues, their cold eyes fixed entirely on Vincent. In the mafia, betrayal was unforgivable, but incompetence was a death sentence.
“You called me weak,” Lorenzo said, stopping two feet away from Vincent.
Lorenzo reached down into his coat pocket and pulled out something small, placing it gently on the edge of the mahogany desk.
It was the shattered steel pocket watch. Its hands were frozen permanently at 2:43.
“This was my father’s watch,” Lorenzo said quietly. “You crushed it under your boot when you dragged me down to that cellar. You thought you destroyed my legacy.”
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Lorenzo looked down at little Emma, who peeked out from behind Sophia’s skirt, holding her broken pink scissors.
“Instead,” Lorenzo continued, his gaze returning to Vincent’s terrified face, “a three-year-old girl with a pair of preschool scissors proved that your entire betrayal was built on glass.”
