Chapter 4
Marcus’s arrogant smirk twisted into a snarl of sudden, reckless rage. Emboldened by his own hubris and the presence of his syndicate peers, he decided to force the issue. He planted his polished leather shoe firmly on the carpet, pulled his right arm back, and swung a heavy, violent punch aimed directly at Domenico’s jaw.
It was a catastrophic miscalculation.
Domenico did not flinch. Despite holding his three-year-old daughter in his left arm, his reflexes were blindingly fast and born of years of brutal, street-level survival before his ascent to the throne. With a subtle, almost effortless shift of his weight, Domenico slipped his head to the side. Marcus’s fist grazed empty air, throwing the older man off balance and exposing his entire left side.
In a fraction of a second, Domenico drove his right hand forward. He delivered one explosive, devastating counterpunch straight across Marcus’s face.
The kinetic force of the impact was horrifying. The sharp, sickening crack of bone echoed over the ambient quiet of the atrium.
Marcus’s eyes rolled back into his head before his body even hit the ground. The sheer momentum of the blow lifted him off his feet, spinning his body violently sideways through the air. He crashed directly into the low marble sculpture plinth that sat near the velvet crowd posts.
The heavy, decorative bronze statue resting on the plinth was dislodged by the impact. It slid off the polished marble surface and slammed onto the thick carpet with a deep, concussive thud. Marcus’s flailing limbs tangled in the velvet crowd ropes. The heavy brass stanchions toppled over, their crimson ropes snapping loose from their hooks and whipping through the air.
Marcus crashed heavily against the shifted marble plinth, entirely unconscious, blood already pooling from his shattered nose onto his expensive tailored suit. The entire display came apart around him, a chaotic ruin of bronze, marble, velvet, and brass.
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Domenico slowly lowered his right hand. The artistic tattoos on his knuckles were completely unmarked. He did not check on the man bleeding on the floor, nor did he adjust his unbuttoned shirt. He simply stood perfectly still amidst the wreckage, his daughter held securely and safely against his chest.
Not a single word was spoken. The bodyguards standing at the perimeter of the room remained frozen like statues. The guests, horrified and mesmerized by the sudden, extreme violence, held their breath. There was no dialogue. Only the faint, dying rattle of a velvet post rolling across the polished marble floor broke the absolute, terrifying silence of the room.
