Chapter 7 - The Sound of Footsteps on Marble
Back at the Long Island estate, the afternoon sun cast long, golden beams across the grand library floors. Carla Bennett was dusting the antique bookshelves near the French doors, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped drum. She knew what was happening in Manhattan. Massimo had given her strict instructions: If I’m not back by four o'clock, pack a bag for you and Nina, take the black sedan in the back garage, and drive straight to the federal courthouse in Brooklyn.
The heavy oak library doors swung open with a slow, ominous creak.
Ranata, the head housekeeper, stepped into the room, her face twisted into a mask of ugly triumph. Behind her stood two private security guards hired by Dean Foster—thugs from the city who didn't wear Rinaldi pins on their lapels.
"Stop cleaning, Carla," Ranata sneered, walking over and snatching the duster right out of the maid's hand. "Your services are no longer required in this house. Mr. Foster called from the city. You and your little bastard are getting thrown out on the street before dinner."
Carla stood her ground, her hands clenched into tight fists at her sides. She remembered Massimo’s words: Let them think they've won until the very last second.
"On whose authority?" Carla asked, keeping her voice artificially steady. "Mr. Rinaldi hasn't signed any termination papers."
"Mr. Rinaldi doesn't have a say anymore," Ranata laughed harshly, signaling the two guards to step forward. "He’s finished in the city. And you're finished here. Pack your rags and get out before I have these men drag you out by your hair."
Before the guards could take another step, a sharp, authoritative click echoed from the arched doorway behind them.
Clack. Clack. Clack.
It wasn't the soft roll of wheelchair rubber against marble. It was the deliberate, heavy, rhythmic strike of a cane against stone. Followed immediately by the sound of firm, living footsteps.
Ranata froze. The two guards turned around in unison.
Standing in the doorway, supported by his polished oak cane, stood Massimo Rinaldi. His shoulders were squared, his black vest immaculate, his gray eyes burning with the cold wrath of an executioner. Behind him walked Sal Caruso and four armed Rinaldi loyalists who had secured the perimeter within minutes of the boardroom confrontation.
"Leaving so soon, Ranata?" Massimo's voice cut through the silent library like a razor.
Ranata’s knees buckled slightly. She grabbed the edge of a mahogany table for support, her face turning the color of ash. "Don... Don Rinaldi... you're... you're in the wheelchair..."
"I was," Massimo said, taking a slow, steady step forward. "For six months, I let rats run through my house because I wanted to see who would chew the wires. And you, Ranata... you were the busiest rat of all."
Massimo turned his gaze to the two city thugs, who instantly dropped their hands away from their holsters, stepping back until their backs hit the wall.
"Sal," Massimo said without looking back. "Escort Mr. Foster’s pets off my property. Tell them if they ever set foot in Nassau County again, they’ll leave in body bags."
May you like
"With pleasure, Don," Sal grinned, motioning his men forward.
Massimo walked past the trembling head housekeeper, his stride firm and unbroken, heading straight toward the tall library windows where the autumn sunlight caught the amber dust motes dancing in the air.
