Chapter 6 - THE SON’S BETRAYAL
The applause echoed off the sterile walls, sharp and mocking.
Michael walked down the corridor, his tailored suit jacket unbuttoned, a sickeningly confident smirk plastered across his face. He didn't look like the panicked, frightened son who had been hiding behind his father just an hour ago.
“Michael?” Anthony stared at his son, his voice trembling with a disbelief that cut deeper than any physical wound. “What are you doing here? You were supposed to be at the estate.”
“The estate is mine now, Dad,” Michael said smoothly, stopping a few feet away from us. He pulled a silver cigarette case from his pocket, flipped it open, and pulled out a cigarette, though he didn't light it. “Thanks to Victoria’s signature on the transfer documents Frank prepared, the board of directors has already ratified my succession.”
Anthony raised his pistol, aiming it straight at his own son. “You treacherous little bastard. You worked with Frank?”
Michael didn't even blink at the barrel of the gun. He just chuckled, sliding the cigarette between his fingers.
“Dad, please. Put the antique down,” Michael sighed, rolling his eyes. “You’ve run this city for forty years. You’re old. You’re sentimental. You let a waitress—your own long-lost granddaughter—weaken your resolve.”
“She is your niece, Michael!” Anthony roared, spittle flying from his lips. “Or have you lost all sense of family completely?”
“Family?” Michael’s smile vanished, replaced by a dark, venomous rage. “What family? Grandpa Vito killed uncle Dominic. You killed Elena’s family. We built an empire on corpses and lies. I just decided I wanted to be the one holding the crown when the dust settled.”
Michael looked down at me, still kneeling on the floor in front of Elena.
“And as for you, cousin,” Michael mocked, bowing slightly. “You played your part wonderfully. The dramatic napkin warning? Masterpiece theater. Frank almost didn't believe you had the acting chops to pull it off.”
My blood ran cold.
“Frank… Frank hired me?” I whispered.
“Of course he did,” Michael smiled. “We needed an outsider with a legitimate reason to get close to the boss. A poor girl with a sick mother desperate for five hundred dollars? You were the easiest asset I’ve ever bought.”
The room spun. Every tear I had shed, every ounce of genuine fear I had felt while warning Anthony at the dinner table—it was all a manufactured performance in a play written by monsters.
I wasn't a hero. I was a pawn.
Anthony’s hand gripped the pistol so tightly his knuckles turned white. He looked at Michael, his eyes hollowed out by a grief so profound it aged him ten years in a single second.
“I gave you everything, Michael,” Anthony whispered, his voice breaking. “I taught you how to lead. I gave you my name.”
“And you gave Dominic nothing,” Elena interjected, stepping protectively in front of me. She glared at Michael. “You’re just like your grandfather. A parasite feeding off blood.”
Michael sneered, raising his hand and snapping his fingers.
From the stairwells and elevator shafts behind us, six armed men in tactical gear emerged, their assault rifles raised, training laser sights directly on Anthony, Elena, and me.
“End of the line, family meeting adjourned,” Michael said, turning on his heel. “Lock them in the room. And make sure the oxygen tanks are punctured. Let’s make it look like a tragic hospital fire.”
Before the guards could rush forward, a deafening explosion rocked the fourth-floor corridor.
The heavy fire doors at the opposite end of the hall blew inward in a cloud of smoke and splintered wood.
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Through the haze, a familiar, terrifying figure stepped into the light.
It was Frank DeLuca. And he wasn't holding a pocket watch anymore. He was holding a grenade launcher.
