Chapter 5
The silence in the grand atrium was deafening, heavy with the metallic tang of adrenaline and the scent of crushed flowers from the banquet tables. Valentina stood frozen by the head table, her fair skin drained entirely of its rosy hue. She looked at the crumpled, bleeding form of her brother lying amidst the ruined velvet ropes and the bronze statue. Panic, sharp and electric, finally pierced her veil of untouchable arrogance.
But instead of retreating, her panic mutated into a desperate, unhinged fury.
Her eyes darted from Marcus’s unconscious body to Domenico, who stood like a carved monument of lethal masculinity. Seeing the calm, emotionless mask on her husband's handsome face, Valentina lost all sense of rational thought. Her gaze snapped to the little girl crying softly against his shoulder. Blaming the child for the sudden destruction of her authority, Valentina let out a sharp, breathless hiss and lunged forward.
She reached out with her manicured hands, her diamond rings flashing in the bright, cinematic light, her fingernails aiming directly toward Ruby’s back to tear the child from her father's arms.
Domenico’s reaction was instantaneous.
He caught her wrist in mid-air, his tattooed fingers clamping down on her arm like a vice of solid steel. He tore her hand away from his daughter with a sudden, vicious torque that elicited a gasp of pain from Valentina. Before she could regain her balance or utter a single word, Domenico pulled his hand back and delivered one thunderous, open-handed slap directly across her face.
The sound of the impact was explosive, ringing off the vaulted ceilings of the atrium.
Valentina’s head whipped sideways with brutal force. She was launched backward, her heels skidding uselessly against the thick carpet. She crashed violently into a towering stack of rich, circular leather ottomans positioned near the edge of the dining area.
The heavy ottomans separated instantly beneath her falling weight. Decorative silk cushions burst outward, scattering like shrapnel across the polished marble floor. Valentina collapsed into the center of the wreckage, her luxurious formal gown tangling around her legs. She landed hard, gasping for breath, clutching her stinging face as she lay sprawled among the tumbled leather furniture.
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The birthday banquet remained completely, utterly silent.
None of the white American guests dared to gasp. None of the hardened bodyguards reached for their weapons. Ethan, sitting at the head table, stared wide-eyed in mute shock. Domenico stood in the center of the destruction, his chest rising and falling in slow, controlled rhythms, shielding his daughter from the chaos he had just unleashed. There was no dialogue. The absolute, terrifying reality of the Mafia boss’s wrath required no translation.
