He waved his arm sharply, his voice rising in anger.
"Security!" he shouted. "Get this old man out of here!"
At once, several enforcers moved forward like trained hounds responding to a command. They surrounded my father in an instant, their eyes cold, their stances aggressive, fists clenched as they prepared to drag him away by force.
The same men who had been all smiles earlier, helping my father carry boxes, setting up decorations in the estate's grand hall, laughing and chatting as if they were still loyal to the Valente house, turned on him in an instant, their expressions hardening as if a switch had been flipped. These were men my father had once commanded with a single look. Now they answered to the name on the deed, not the blood in the room.
"You lay a finger on me and you'll regret it," my father warned, his voice sharp and unyielding, the authority he once carried still echoing in his tone. Even weakened, even stripped of operational control, Don Salvatore Valente's voice could still make the air heavier.
One of the guards scoffed, clearly unimpressed. "Why wouldn't we? Who do you think you are?" he sneered, taking a step closer, his posture deliberately provocative.