Chapter 5 - The Snake in the Room
Marco Kant—Daario’s second-in-command and cousin—stepped into the room.
He was a tall, thin man in his late forty with sharp, hawk-like features, wearing a dark camel-hair coat over an expensive pinstriped suit. Behind him, two thick-necked enforcers stood in the doorway, their hands resting inside their coats.
Marco didn't look at the monitors. He didn't look at his cousin lying motionless on the bed. He carried a silver-tipped walking stick, tapping it rhythmically against the floor as he walked toward the center of the room.
"Francesca," Marco said, his tone dripping with fake sympathy. "You’re still here? You look exhausted, my dear. You should be at home preparing for the transition meeting tomorrow."
Francesca stood beside the window, her arms crossed, her expression a wall of cold granite. "My brother is still breathing, Marco. As long as he breathes, there is no transition."
Marco chuckled, a dry, rattling sound. He stepped up to the side of the bed, looking down at Daario’s closed eyes and the fogged oxygen mask.
"Breathing?" Marco sneered softly. "A vegetable breathes, Francesca. A plant breathes. The doctors say his brain is mush. The impact crushed his skull. He’s an empty vessel keeping a hospital bed warm."
Marco reached out with his silver-tipped cane, resting the heavy metal knob against Daario’s shoulder, prodding the motionless body disrespectfully.
Behind the curtain, Marisol felt Lucia twitch. She squeezed the child tighter, her heart hammering so hard she was certain Marco could hear it.
"Remove that stick, Marco," Francesca said, her voice dropping into a deadly register. "Or I will remove your hand."
Marco smiled, turning his head slowly toward her. "You have your brother’s temper, Francesca. But you don't have his soldiers. Five of the seven capos have signed the succession proxy. By 10:00 AM tomorrow, I take control of the waterfront assets. And the first thing I’m going to do is clear out the dead weight."
Marco walked slowly toward the privacy curtain in the corner.
Marisol’s breath caught in her throat. Her body went rigid.
Marco pulled the curtain back with the tip of his cane, revealing Marisol huddled in the vinyl chair, holding Lucia tightly in her lap.
Marco’s dark eyebrows rose in mild amusement. "And what is this? The cleaning staff is holding vigils now?"
"She was cleaning the room," Francesca said quickly, stepping between Marco and Marisol. "Leave her out of this."
Marco’s sharp eyes scanned Marisol’s terrified face, then dropped to the little girl held tightly against her chest. He leaned down, his face inches from Marisol’s.
"You’ve been in this room a lot, haven't you, maid?" Marco asked softly. "My spotters said you bring your kid in here every afternoon."
Marisol couldn't speak. Her vocal cords were frozen with absolute terror.
"Answer him," one of Marco’s guards barked from the doorway, taking a step forward.
"She doesn't answer to your dogs, Marco," Francesca snapped, reaching for her jacket.
"Hold on, Francesca," Marco said, holding up a gloved hand. He stared intently at Lucia’s small, dark head pressed into Marisol’s shoulder. Something about the child’s posture, or perhaps a lingering suspicion from his own intelligence networks, seemed to pick at his brain. "There’s something familiar about this little mouse..."
Marco reached out with his gloved hand, grabbing Lucia by her shoulder to yank her around so he could see her face.
"Don't touch her!" Marisol shrieked, instinctively biting Marco’s wrist with vicious force.
"Ah! You bitch!" Marco roared, pulling his hand back and raising his silver-tipped cane to strike Marisol across the face.
The cane never came down.
A hand—massive, thick-knuckled, and hard as forged iron—shot out from the hospital bed, catching the heavy silver cane in mid-air.
The metal bent slightly under the sheer force of the grip.
The room went dead, terrifyingly silent.
Marco froze, his jaw dropping open, his eyes wide with absolute horror. He slowly turned his head.
Daario Kant was sitting upright in the bed.
The oxygen mask hung loose around his thick neck. His bloodshot eyes were wide open, burning with a lethal, demonic rage that seemed to turn the very air in the room to ice.
"Daario..." Marco gasped, his voice squeaking like a strangled rat.
"You touched... my maid," Daario rasped, his voice a low, terrifying rumble that vibrated through the floorboards.
Daario twisted his wrist.
CRACK.
The solid oak and silver cane snapped in half like a dry twig.
Before Marco could scream or draw a weapon, Daario surged out of the hospital bed. The IV lines snapped out of his arms, spraying tiny droplets of clear saline onto the floor.
Twenty-one days of coma, atrophied muscles, destroyed nerves—none of it mattered. Driven by pure, unadulterated vengeance and protective fury, the six-foot-four giant hit the floor with the weight of a falling oak tree.
He grabbed Marco by his silk tie and throat with one massive hand, slamming him face-first into the heavy mahogany door with a sound that sounded like a gunshot.
THAM!
Marco’s two guards reached frantically into their coats, but Francesca and Viktor were faster. Two sharp, muffled THWIP-THWIP sounds echoed in the small room. The guards collapsed to the floor, instantly neutralized by Viktor’s silenced pistol.
Marco was choking, his boots dangling two inches off the floor as Daario pinned him against the shattered door panel.
"Daario... please..." Marco choked out, his eyes bulging, his hands frantically beating against Daario’s iron forearm. "It was... a mistake... cousin..."
Daario’s face was inches from Marco’s. The terrifying boss of the city’s shadows leaned in close, his voice a cold, jagged whisper.
"You cut my brake line, Marco," Daario rasped softly. "You tried to steal my empire. And then... you raised a stick... at my daughter."
Marco’s eyes went wider than humanly possible. "Daughter...?"
Daario didn't answer. He turned his wrist, slamming Marco’s head into the door frame once more.
Marco’s body went completely limp, dropping onto the marble floor in an unconscious, bloody heap.
Daario stood over the fallen snake, breathing heavily, his broad chest heaving. Blood trickled down his forearm where the IV lines had torn free. He stood there for five seconds, a towering demon in hospital pants, looking ready to tear the rest of the building apart.
Then, he turned slowly toward the corner of the room.
The terrifying rage in his eyes dissolved instantly, replaced by a desperate, anxious fear as he looked at Marisol and Lucia.
Lucia was watching him, her small mouth slightly open.
Daario looked down at his blood-stained hands, then at his fallen cousin, realizing what he had just displayed in front of the child. For the first time in his life, the most feared man in the city looked terrified.
"Lucia..." Daario rasped, his broad shoulders sinking as he took a slow, painful step backward, trying to hide his hands behind his back. "I'm... I'm sorry... you had to see..."
Lucia slipped out of Marisol’s lap.
She walked past the unconscious men on the floor, past the blood on the door, straight up to the towering giant. She reached up, took his huge, bloody, trembling hand into her tiny ones, and looked up at him with pure, unwavering trust.
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"You stopped the bad man," Lucia said softly. "You're strong now, Mister Daario."
Daario Kant dropped to his knees on the cold floor, pulled his six-year-old daughter into his arms, and buried his face in her small shoulder, weeping silently while his empire burned outside the window.
