Mr. De Rossi gave Dante his back after a few seconds of sharp, charged eye contact and walked briskly upstairs.
He didn't look back. He didn't dare.
Though his expression was stoic, his mind churned with unease. He was the one behind the attack on Jaime Lorenzo. It had been nothing more than a warning, a reminder of what happened to those who refused to back down when told. But his thoughts were no longer on Jaime.
They were on his son.
Even though Dante's hands were no longer clamped around his throat, he could still feel the ghost of them. His collar pressed uncomfortably against his neck where his son had nearly strangled him in public, before dozens of witnesses.
The shame he could endure.
But the fear?
That was different.
For the first time in a very long time, Mr. De Rossi had felt genuine fear. Of his own blood. His own son.
