THE MAFIA'S BROKEN EMPEROR / Chapter 5 / 16

Chapter 4 - The Offshore Trust of Silvio MorettiBy 11:30 PM, the private medical pavilion on the third floor of the estate was filled with the sterile hum of surgical monitors and the scent of antiseptic alcohol.

Dr. Arthur Mercer—seventy years old, his hands trembling violently beneath the glare of the overhead surgical lamps—held the portable radio-frequency emitter against the base of my lumbar spine.

With a high-pitched electronic chime, the titanium clamp that had strangled my lower spinal cord for five years unlocked with a distinct, internal click.

A concussive shockwave of heat, blood flow, and raw neurological sensation tore through my pelvic girdle and down both legs into my toes.

I arched off the table with a guttural roar, my fingers digging into the vinyl padding until the seams gave way, sweat pouring from my face as fifty months of forced paralysis were dissolved in sixty seconds.

Dr. Mercer backed away, his face pale as chalk, his surgical mask hanging loose around his neck.

“It’s done, Don Dante... the clamp is released... the nerve bundle is intact... I swear on my grandchildren's lives, Silvio forced me! He threatened to drown my daughter in the harbor!”

I didn't answer the groveling surgeon.

I swung both legs over the side of the examination table.

My feet struck the tiled floor with a heavy, solid slap.

I stood up.

My calves shuddered under my two-hundred-and-twenty-pound frame, but my balance was true, my spine locked straight, my hands steady as iron anchors.

I walked three paces to the full-length mirror on the wall.

Reflected in the glass was not a broken invalid draped in cashmere blankets.

It was the Boardwalk Emperor.

Thirty-eight years old, broad-shouldered, dangerous, with dark hair touching the collar of my tailored black dress shirt, my gray eyes burning with the lethal, unshakeable certainty of a sovereign whose kingdom was about to be reclaimed.

The door opened softly.

Elena Corelli walked into the pavilion.

She was thirty-two, wearing a simple navy dress that Mrs. Gable had brought her, her dark wavy hair pulled back, her face bearing the striking, haunting resemblance to Sofia that made my breath lock in my throat.

Beside her walked Toby, holding her hand with quiet pride.

When Elena saw me standing tall in the center of the room, her hand flew to her mouth, tears spilling over her lashes in silent, overwhelming waves.

“Dante,” she whispered, her voice carrying the exact cadence of her sister’s melody.

I crossed the room with slow, deliberate strides, stopping two feet in front of her.

I didn't offer apologies. I didn't offer excuses.

I dropped onto one knee on the tiled floor before Sofia’s sister, bowing my head with profound, sovereign reverence.

“Forgive me, Elena,” I murmured, my baritone rough with emotion. “I let a traitor drive you into the basement of my own home. I was blind, deaf, and broken.”