No Second Chance With The Cold Don

Elias POV

The grand hall of the Rossi compound was suffocatingly warm, thick with the aroma of expensive cigars and filled with the elite members of our syndicate.

As the banquet commenced, Siena sat tensely beside me at the head table.

Vincenzo, the hardened former Consigliere, sat at the center, his face flushed with high spirits.

He raised his glass and loudly declared his wish for Siena and me to produce a Falcone heir to secure the bloodline as soon as possible.

Siena glanced at me, her cheeks tinting pink, and murmured she would try.

I smoothly appeased Vincenzo, joking that he might find a crying infant a nuisance in his old age.

The old man roared with laughter, slamming his heavy hand on the table.

Suddenly, a voice broke through the celebratory noise.

Julian Vance emerged from the lower-ranking shadows at the back of the hall.

"My senior is in the prime of her career," he muttered loudly, his voice carrying across the sudden stillness. "She should not be chained down by breeding."

The scrape of silver on porcelain ceased abruptly. In the air, plumes of cigar smoke hung suspended like grey, twisted ropes.

The eyes of every made man, Capo, and Underboss locked onto Julian as he audaciously walked right up to the Don's table.

Julian introduced himself to Vincenzo, casually reaching out to touch the old Consigliere's arm.

"Siena belongs to her ambitions," he argued. "A child would only trap her potential."

The knuckles of every man at my table had gone white, their faces hardening into masks of murderous intent.

Every single one of my men looked to me, waiting for the command to remove him permanently.

I simply reclined in my leather chair, slowly sipping my whiskey.

I said absolutely nothing.

Vincenzo's face turned black with fury.

He smoothly evaded Julian's touch, stepping back as if the boy carried a plague.

"How dare you interfere in the sacred internal affairs of the Famiglia?" Vincenzo fiercely reprimanded him.

Julian looked entirely lost, his eyes wide as he claimed he only cared for Siena.

Low, mocking sneers rippled across the main table at the Associate's suicidal foolishness.

Vincenzo glared at Siena, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous growl.

"Never invite outsiders who disrespect Omerta," he commanded her. "Any guest must be explicitly approved by the Don."

I chuckled darkly, the sound echoing in the tense silence.

I thoroughly enjoyed the sight of Julian sweating bullets under the crushing weight of the Mafia's hierarchy.

Siena stood up suddenly, her chair scraping loudly against the marble floor.

She reached out and pulled Julian behind her back.

She took the blame entirely on herself, defending him by claiming he was just a naive student who did not understand the ironclad rules of our profession.

The mocking amusement in my eyes instantly froze into a glare cold enough to frost glass.

I locked eyes with Siena in the heavy gloom of the hall.

Over her shoulder, I caught Julian's smug, victorious smirk directed right at me.

I memorized that smirk. It would cost him everything.

After the banquet concluded, Siena ordered her personal enforcer to drive Julian back to the city.

She retrieved the car herself to take me home.

The atmosphere inside the vehicle was thick with unspoken violence, the only sound the rhythmic slap of the wipers against the rain-streaked glass.

Siena kept her eyes on the road, failing to understand the gravity of the situation she had just created.

"Were you too ruthless, letting Julian be publicly humiliated by the elders?" she quietly questioned.

I raised an eyebrow in genuine astonishment.

A cold knot tightened in my chest, freezing whatever affection I had left for her.

"Did I utter a single word against him all night?" I asked her with deadpan indifference.

I informed her that if I truly wanted to deal with Julian, I would not use passive-aggressive games.

"I would simply sever our marital alliance and let the syndicate handle the rest," I told her.

The car suddenly accelerated, the engine roaring in the rain.

I watched Siena's knuckles turn stark white as she gripped the steering wheel.

"A Don does not waste his time exterminating your kennel of strays," I told her point-blank.

"I will just divorce you and be done with it," I said, my voice devoid of any emotion.

The brakes screeched violently as she pulled the car over to the side of the empty road.

Siena turned her head, her dark eyes fixed on me in stunned, breathless silence.

Letting out a defeated sigh, she reached across the console.

"I allowed you to misunderstand the situation," she admitted.

"It will not happen again," she promised, fiercely stating that I was her only husband.

I turned my head away, staring out into the torrential rain beating against the glass.

I offered no response.

After that night, our life seemingly returned to a fragile, tense normal.

But on the day of our seventh anniversary, Siena took a frantic phone call in the middle of the afternoon.

She grabbed her coat and left the estate without a single moment of hesitation.

The heavy oak door slammed shut behind her, and the great clock in the hall struck the hour, its chime swallowed by the vacuum of the empty house.

And that was the exact moment I decided to prepare the legal severance of the Falcone and Rossi holdings.

I stared at the untouched anniversary dinner growing cold on the table and made a single phone call. "Summon the legal team. First thing tomorrow."