The atmosphere in the room plummeted below freezing.

Lorenzo did not shout. He did not draw his firearm. He simply stepped forward and reached down, sliding his strong arms beneath Nora’s back and knees. With effortless strength, he lifted the pregnant maid from the cold floor, cradling her against his chest as if she were made of spun glass.

Nora gasped, clutching his lapels, her eyes wide with shock and fear. "Mr. Moretti—"

"Hush," Lorenzo commanded softly, his gray eyes locking onto hers with a tenderness that stunned the guards in the room. "You will never touch a mop again, little one."

He looked at his captains.

"Marco. Silvio."

"Boss?" both men answered instantly, their hands already drawing silenced Berettas from their holsters.

"Take Mrs. Gable and every parlor maid who participated in my father's neglect," Lorenzo said, his voice flat, emotionless, and colder than the blizzard outside. "Strip them of their winter coats. Strip them of their shoes. Confiscate their phones, their wallets, and their luggage."

Mrs. Gable shrieked, clawing at Lorenzo’s trousers. "Mr. Moretti, please! There is three feet of snow out there! The road to the town is ten miles! We will freeze to death in thirty minutes!"

Lorenzo looked down at her with dead eyes.

"Then you had better learn how to run," Lorenzo said. "Walk them to the main gate. Lock it behind them. If any of them are still breathing on Moretti land by sunrise, bury them beneath the snowplow."

"Mercy! Don Giovanni, have mercy!" Mrs. Gable screamed as Marco and Silvio dragged her backward across the polished marble, her manicured nails leaving white scratches on the stone.

Giovanni did not even blink. He sat down slowly in his son’s leather armchair by the fire, picking up the bottle of bourbon with a steady, rejuvenated hand.

"Mercy," the old Don muttered, pouring himself two fingers of liquor, "is for human beings, Gable. Not for scavengers."