Chapter 1 - The Throne at the Table
Word Count: ~800 words
Maribel violently tugs the decorative silver chain fastened loosely around Estelle’s collar.
Estelle is pulled from the banquet chair and falls onto both knees.
Daphne immediately catches her and helps support her, shielding the fragile woman with her own body.
“That chair belongs to the woman of this house,” Maribel sneers, her voice cutting through the hushed grand ballroom like shattered glass.
Leandro is already stepping into the ballroom from the adjoining Mafia council room, his tailored suit immaculate, his expression an unreadable mask of ice.
He walks directly past the gasping guests, removes the chain from his mother’s trembling fingers, and gently helps Estelle back to her feet.
“Just let it go,” Estelle whispers softly to her son, her hands clutching Leandro’s forearm. “Mom doesn’t want them to hurt you.”
Maribel arrogant sits herself down in Estelle’s ornate banquet chair at the head of the long mahogany table. She drapes the silver chain across her own silk lap and fixes her sharp, dark eyes directly on Leandro.
“Then choose who keeps the seat,” Maribel demands, lifting her chin with ruthless arrogance.
Leandro silently takes hold of one end of the silver chain.
For five agonizing seconds, nobody in the Moretti family ballroom dares to breathe. The council members, lieutenants, and high-society patrons hold their wine glasses mid-air, waiting for the young don to break.
Maribel expects him to bow. She expects him to surrender the matriarch’s seat to her—the widow of the previous Don’s brother, a woman who has spent fifteen years building a faction inside the family’s bloodline.
Instead, Leandro’s knuckles turn white around the silver links.
With a swift, brutal jerk, he snaps the silver chain straight out of Maribel’s lap. The force of his pull sends her expensive crystal goblet crashing onto the marble floor, shattering into a thousand sparkling shards.
Maribel flinches, her face draining of color.
“The seat belongs to the matriarch of the Moretti bloodline,” Leandro says, his deep voice carrying a terrifying, quiet weight that echoes off the gilded ceilings. “My mother raised the don. She built this house while your husband squandered our docks in Miami.”
Daphne steps forward, placing a reassuring hand on Estelle’s shoulder as she guides her back toward the head of the table.
“Get up, Maribel,” Daphne says, her voice cold and steady. “Before Leandro stops being polite.”
Maribel’s jaw twitched with venom. She looks around the room, searching for support among the senior council members. But seeing the dark resolve in Leandro’s eyes and the armed guards shifting silently near the doorways, she slowly rises from the chair, her silk dress rustling in the tense silence.
“You think a title makes you untouchable, Leandro?” Maribel whispers, leaning in close as she passes him. “A throne built on fragile women collapses fast.”
“Then don’t stand under it when it falls,” Leandro replies without looking at her.
He gently pulls out the carved mahogany chair for his mother. Estelle takes her seat, her hands still shaking slightly, but her chin held high as Daphne sits beside her.
Leandro turns toward the thirty guests watching from the long banquet table. He raises his glass of dark red wine.
May you like
“To family,” Leandro says, his dark eyes locking onto Maribel as she retreats toward her faction at the far end of the hall. “And to knowing your place in it.”
The guests raise their glasses in unison, but the air in the room remains thick with impending war. The battle for the seat was over for tonight, but everyone in the room knew the real war for the Moretti empire had just begun.
