Nico's smug smile stretched wider and wider, his satisfaction almost grotesque.
Then—
Smack!
The sharp crack echoed through the banquet hall like a gunshot, cutting through every whisper and every breath. Every soldier along the walls went rigid. Hands drifted toward waistbands on instinct.
"You bastard!"
My father had lunged forward, his hand striking Nico across the face with such force that his head snapped violently to the side. The sound alone was enough to make several people flinch.
He stood there, chest heaving, eyes blazing with uncontrollable fury. Don Salvatore Valente, the man who had once held the Commission in his grip, who had built the Valente name into something that made other Families lower their voices when they said it. The image of everything I had sacrificed, for this man, for this marriage, for this alliance, seemed to ignite something primal inside him. And now, seeing it all reduced to this humiliation, this betrayal, was more than he could bear.
"She gave up her womb for you!" my father roared. "She gave you status, gave you the Valente name, gave you territory you never could have held on your own, and this is how you repay her?!"
Nico's face flushed red, not from the pain of the slap, but from the humiliation of being struck in front of every capo, associate, and guest in the room. His pride shattered, his composure cracked. I saw his left hand move, the cuff tugged down over his wrist in that old, reflexive way he'd never been able to shed.
He waved his arm sharply, his voice rising in anger.
"Security!" he shouted. "Get this old man out of here!"
At once, several enforcers moved forward like trained hounds responding to a command. They surrounded my father in an instant, their eyes cold, their stances aggressive, fists clenched as they prepared to drag him away by force.
The same men who had been all smiles earlier, helping my father carry boxes, setting up decorations in the estate's grand hall, laughing and chatting as if they were still loyal to the Valente house, turned on him in an instant, their expressions hardening as if a switch had been flipped. These were men my father had once commanded with a single look. Now they answered to the name on the deed, not the blood in the room.
"You lay a finger on me and you'll regret it," my father warned, his voice sharp and unyielding, the authority he once carried still echoing in his tone. Even weakened, even stripped of operational control, Don Salvatore Valente's voice could still make the air heavier.
One of the guards scoffed, clearly unimpressed. "Why wouldn't we? Who do you think you are?" he sneered, taking a step closer, his posture deliberately provocative.
For a brief moment, they hesitated. Something in my father's eyes, that unbroken fire, that pride that refused to bend even now, made them pause. The old Don's gaze still carried the ghost of the man who had once decided whether men like them lived or disappeared. But that moment didn't last.
Giada, thriving in the chaos like it was her personal stage, strode forward with a gleam of excitement in her eyes. Her fingers brushed the hollow of her throat as she moved, that old habit, and then without a second thought, she raised her hand and slapped my father hard across the face.
The sound rang out, crisp and brutal.
He froze. Completely.
This was a man who had once stood at the top. Former head of the Commission of the Five Families. A man who had sat across from senators, judges, governors, men whose careers he had built or ended with a phone call. A man who commanded respect wherever he went. And now, in front of a room full of people, he had been struck by the very woman who had stolen everything from him, a Sorrentino nobody who had crawled into his household through his son-in-law's bed.
For a split second, it looked like he was about to explode, years of dignity and restraint collapsing into pure rage. But I moved faster. I grabbed his arm, pulling him back with all my strength before the situation spiraled completely out of control.
"This is too much," someone whispered, their voice trembling. "They even hit Don Valente?"
"How could they disrespect him like that?" another voice rose, louder this time. "Don Valente is a great man. He's built churches, funded scholarships, kept families fed when times were hard. How dare they treat him like this?"
"Seraphina threw her entire life away for that man," someone else added bitterly. "Doesn't she understand? A woman can't undo that kind of sacrifice. Men can become fathers at seventy, but a woman… once it's gone, it's gone."
"If my daughter had done something like this," another muttered darkly, "I would've knocked some sense into her a long time ago."
"This couple, Nico and Giada, they're disgusting," someone said, unable to hide their contempt. "And now they're sitting on the Valente fortune? Running Valente territory? What a joke."
The room filled with anger, with pointing fingers, with voices rising and overlapping. Some cursed Nico openly. Some pitied me. Others simply watched, drawn in by the spectacle like it was something they couldn't look away from.
But Nico?
He stood there, completely unfazed. Not a flicker of guilt. Not a hint of shame. He adjusted his cuff one last time and let his hand fall still.
"Are we done yet?" he asked casually, as if the entire scene was nothing more than an inconvenience.
