Chapter 3 - The Broken Heir
Nico stumbled into the study, his chest heaving, his face flushed with a toxic mix of alcohol, adrenaline, and narcissistic fury. In his right hand, a polished Beretta 9mm caught the dim amber light of the desk lamp.
“What the hell is going on here?” Nico roared, his eyes darting from Leo standing casually beside the open vault panel to Myra, who stood completely composed by the edge of the walnut desk.
Nico didn't look like a master manipulator now; he looked like a spoiled child caught with his hand in the cookie jar, desperate and dangerous because he had no idea how to handle a situation he couldn't charm his way out of.
“Put the gun down, boy,” Leo said, his voice dropping into that lethal, flat register that always made his capos sweat. “Before you do something that requires me to bury you next to your uncle.”
“She shouldn't be in here, Dad! She heard—” Nico stammered, lowering the barrel by a fraction of an inch, though his hand was shaking. “She’s just a civilian. She doesn't belong in the syndicate business. Tell her to get out.”
“She heard enough to know you’re a liability,” Leo stepped forward, closing the distance between father and son with terrifying speed. Before Nico could react, Leo’s hand lashed out, gripping the barrel of the Beretta and wrenching it upward with brutal force. A deafening crack echoed through the study as the slide slammed back, ejecting a live round onto the Persian rug.
Nico gasped, stumbling backward until his spine hit the edge of the bookshelf. “Dad! What are you doing? I’m your heir!”
“You were my heir,” Leo corrected coldly, releasing his son’s wrist and wiping his hands with a pristine linen handkerchief as if he had touched something diseased. “Effective immediately, your operational clearance for the Brooklyn docks, the real estate portfolio, and the Swiss accounts has been revoked. You are stripped of your title, your vehicles, and your allowance.”
The color drained completely from Nico’s face. He looked like he had been physically struck by a sledgehammer. His mouth opened and closed soundlessly before he let out a strangled laugh of pure disbelief.
“You’re stripping me of everything? Over her? Over some mechanic's daughter you’ve been secretly subsidizing?” Nico screamed, pointing a trembling finger directly at Myra. His eyes bulged with psychotic fury. “She means nothing! It was a bet! Ten thousand dollars! Everybody in the inner circle knew about it! Chloe, Marcus, even the accountant—everyone laughed about how easy she was—”
Before Nico could finish his sentence, Myra moved.
She didn't cry. She didn't flinch. She picked up the heavy, cold champagne bottle she had carried into the study and walked straight toward him.
Nico stared at her, mesmerized by the deadly calm in her eyes. “Myra... wait, baby, listen to me, I was just drunk, it was a joke—”
CRASH.
The heavy glass bottle shattered directly across the bridge of Nico’s nose, sending a spray of red blood and crystal shards flying across the antique books. Nico shrieked, collapsing to his knees, clutching his face as crimson poured through his fingers.
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Myra stood over him, looking down at the man who had tried to break her soul, her bare feet standing proudly in a puddle of spilled champagne and blood.
“The joke’s over, Nico,” she whispered, dropping the jagged neck of the bottle onto the floor. She turned back to Leo, whose lips curved into a very faint, approving smile. “Now. Let’s talk about destroying Chloe.”
