Chapter 2 - Severing the Silken Traps
Dante did not waste a single fraction of a second listening to his fiancée’s theatrical screaming.
The air around the mob boss dropped below freezing as his broad jaw set into a block of black granite.
He crossed the forty feet of marble with long, predatory strides that sounded like the steady march of executioners.
His polished leather shoes struck the stone with concussive force, completely bypassing Victoria as if she were made of thin air.
The blonde stumbled back a step in surprise, her golden heels clicking awkwardly as her manufactured tears failed to halt him.
Dante dropped heavily onto one knee before the cream armchair, his large, scarred hands reaching out with desperate tenderness.
His fingers gripped the knot of the white cloth gag at the base of his mother’s silver hair.
With a single sharp, controlled pull, Dante ripped the suffocating fabric away from her lips.
Donna Sofia gasped violently, drawing in the cool air of the hall as dry sobs racked her frail seventy-six-year-old frame.
“Breathe, Ma, I’ve got you,” Dante whispered in a voice thick with raw agony and uncontainable menace.
His right hand dove smoothly into his inner suit pocket, producing a sleek folding utility blade with a black matte finish.
The steel flicked open silently, gleaming menacingly under the golden light of the central chandelier.
With surgical precision, Dante slipped the sharp edge beneath the soft white ropes binding his mother’s wrists.
He sliced through the fibers in two clean, effortless strokes, taking immense care not to graze her paper-thin skin.
The severed bindings fell limp against the cream velvet upholstery like dead serpents.
Sofia’s left hand instantly shot forward, clutching Dante’s black lapels with surprising, desperate strength.
She was shaking so violently that the pearls around her neck clicked together in erratic rhythm.
As Dante cradled her trembling shoulders to reassure her, his sharp gaze caught an anomaly beneath the chair.
Tucked partially into the shadow beneath the skirt of the armchair was a heavy, slate-gray document folder.
The corner of thick legal cardstock protruded, bearing the raised gold foil seal of the Moretti family’s private notary.
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Dante reached down with an iron grip, dragging the heavy folder out from the darkness into the golden light.
He flipped open the cover, his dark eyes narrowing into razor-thin slits as the bold headline hit his retinas: Irrevocable Asset Transfer.
