Who's Useless Now, Mr. Capo

Elena POV

The heavy iron gates of the estate groaned open, permitting our convoy to pass into the grounds.

The moment the armored vehicle came to a halt on the circular gravel drive, Julian unfastened his seatbelt and scrambled from the door.

He did not so much as glance in my direction.

He ran straight through the massive oak double doors, his small, sharp footfalls swallowed by the echoing marble of the grand foyer.

I followed at a more deliberate pace, feeling the familiar, oppressive chill of the house settle upon my shoulders.

Every polished surface in this place was a monument to Victor's authority, paid for with the blood and secrets I had once translated for him.

Now, I knew I would never again breathe freely in this cell, where even the frequency of my respirations was likely logged by some unseen security system.

I found Julian in the grand living room, his face buried in the velvet folds of his grandmother's lap.

Gloria sat enthroned on the damask sofa, stroking his hair with a pantomime of exaggerated pity.

"She made me perform the work of a servant!" Julian wailed, his voice pitched for maximum effect, pointing an accusing finger as I entered the room. "She refused me gelato, and she raised her voice."

Gloria's gaze lifted to mine, and it was a flat, venomous thing, devoid of all light.

"You lack the temperament required of a Capo's wife, Elena," she pronounced, her voice a low instrument of condescension. "You live in a fortress, protected by our men. The raising of a boy is a trifle compared to the burdens my son endures."

The soles of my feet seemed to fuse with the marble flagstones, the forward momentum of my stride sending a sharp, sour ache through the cartilage of my knees.

"He called me a useless pig in Russian today," I said, and the words fell like chips of ice into the vast, heated room.

Gloria's hand went still upon Julian's head.

Then she recovered, making a faint, dismissive gesture with her fingers.

"He is a child. He has likely learned it from those violent films you permit him to watch."

"It was Victor's precise turn of phrase," I countered, refusing to be led into her maze of denial. "The one he reserves for dealings with the Bratva. And Julian tells me you laughed when he used it. You told him it was a proper word for a useless woman. "

Gloria's composure cracked, a flash of something ugly and defensive flickering in her eyes.

"Victor has no time for the teaching of such nonsense," Gloria retorted, and a dark, mottled flush rose beneath the powder on her cheeks. "He is occupied with the running of his territory."

"Perhaps Serena taught him," I said, my voice sinking to a near-whisper.

The customary hum of the great house seemed to cease.

The name hung in the air, a palpable and indecent thing.

Serena was an ambitious woman who managed the front-of-house operations at one of Victor's casinos.

She was also the woman with whom my husband shared his bed.

This was a fact known to every soul under this roof.

It was also a fact that remained unspoken.

It was the gravest breach of respect, a stain upon my position, and I was expected to swallow it in silence.

"Serena bought me a new drone yesterday," Julian announced, utterly untroubled by the sudden, suffocating tension. "She says I am the most intelligent boy in the Family."

I looked at my son and felt a cold, hollowing sensation as I understood how cheaply his allegiance was being purchased with trinkets, while my own devotion was a thing to be trod upon.

"Guards," I called out, my eyes fixed upon Gloria.

Two armed men in dark suits appeared instantly in the doorway.

"Disconnect the power to the estate's screening room," I ordered. "Julian is to be denied all entertainment privileges until I see fit to restore them."

Gloria rose to her feet, the silk of her dress rustling, her face a mask of fury.

"You will do nothing of the sort. He is the heir."

"Disrespect to the mother of the heir is a forfeiture of privilege," I said, my voice as unyielding as stone.

I took a single, deliberate step toward her.

"Why was his age not a consideration when you taught him to despise the woman who gave him life?" I asked.

The color drained from Gloria's face, her mouth working silently for a moment.

"You are disturbing the peace of this household," she finally hissed. "You are behaving like a madwoman."

I turned my back on her and walked into the sprawling, industrial-grade kitchen.

The private chef was already arranging a vast platter of roasted meats and imported pastas.

"Leave," I told him.

His expression flickered with confusion, but he wiped his hands on his apron and departed without a word.

I went to the pantry, retrieved a single portion of plain pasta, and set a pot of water to boil.

Julian ran into the kitchen, with Gloria following close behind him.

"I am hungry!" he demanded, striking the marble island with his small fists. "I want the roast beef."

I drained the pasta into a small bowl, added a scant drizzle of olive oil, and took up a fork.

I leaned against the counter and took a single, slow bite, my eyes fixed upon him.

"From this day forward, he who pities the boy may serve the boy," I announced to the room at large.

A strangled gasp escaped Gloria's throat.

She marched to the stove, seizing a heavy pan to attend to the raw meat the chef had abandoned.

She fumbled with the gas dial, muttering a curse beneath her breath.

Ten minutes later, the air was thick with the smell of burnt garlic and charred beef.

Gloria slammed a plate of the blackened substance before Julian.

He took one look at it and pushed the plate away, his lip curling in disgust.

"I want my mother's cooking," he demanded, his eyes welling with tears of pure frustration.

He looked at me, his expression a mixture of command and expectation, waiting for me to tie on an apron and restore his world to its proper order.

I set my empty bowl in the sink.

"Your allegiance is not a license for my abuse, Julian," I said, walking past him toward the door.

Behind me, I heard his fork clatter against the ruined plate. He was learning, too slowly, that the woman who had once softened every blow was gone. And the woman who remained had no intention of softening anything ever again.