Chapter 5
Mark pulled on Noah's arm again, a sneer of irritation twisting his aristocratic features. "Stop whining and get up," he snapped at the child.
He never saw it coming.
Richard moved with a terrifying, explosive speed that defied his sixty-one years. He didn't cock his arm back or telegraph the strike; it was a pure, kinetic transfer of unadulterated rage. He violently knocked Mark’s grasping hand away with his left forearm, breaking his son's balance. In the same fluid, devastating motion, Richard drove a closed right fist straight across Mark’s jaw.
The sound of the impact was sickening—a sharp, meaty crack that echoed through the cavernous entrance hall like a gunshot.
Mark’s eyes rolled back into his head instantly. The sheer force of the blow lifted him off his expensive leather shoes. He spun violently backward, completely airborne, flying through the space between the armchairs.
His body slammed into the heavy wooden wine trolley with the force of a freight train. The trolley buckled under his weight. Hundreds of perfectly stacked crystal wine glasses exploded into a shimmering cloud of glass dust and jagged shards. Bottles of vintage Barolo and Dom Pérignon shattered, spraying dark red wine and golden champagne across the polished floorboards like blood.
But the momentum didn't stop there. Mark’s dead weight collapsed the trolley entirely, and he kept sliding, crashing headfirst into the elaborate, towering display of decorative wooden sleds and winter greenery.
Wood splintered violently. Huge, iron-runner sleds toppled over, crashing onto the hardwood. Yards of thick silk ribbon, massive silver bows, and pine garlands rained down around him as the entire holiday display collapsed in a thunderous avalanche of destruction. Mark came to a halt amidst the wreckage, groaning incoherently, his face covered in expensive wine and his own blood. A large cut above his eye wept freely onto his cashmere sweater.
The room erupted into chaos. Several women screamed, clutching their husbands. The bodyguards instinctively reached into their jackets, hands resting on the grips of their holstered weapons, but they froze, their eyes darting to Richard, waiting for an order. None came.
"Stay exactly where you are!" Sal, the caporegime, barked at the younger guards, holding his hands out to keep anyone from intervening. "Nobody moves! Nobody!"
Richard stood perfectly balanced, his knuckles slightly white, his breathing slow and measured. He casually adjusted the cuff of his dress shirt, smoothing the fabric of his tailored suit. He did not look at the screaming guests, nor did he look at the guards. His cold, predatory gaze was locked entirely on his son, who was weakly trying to push himself up from the shattered glass and broken wood.
Not a single word was spoken by the boss. The silence radiating from Richard was infinitely more terrifying than the punch itself. It was the silence of a judge who had already signed the death warrant.
In the armchair, little Noah peeked out from beneath the heavy overcoat, his wide, tear-filled eyes staring in awe at his grandfather. The terrifying monster of the underworld had just leveled a room to protect him.
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From the side of the room, an agonizing, high-pitched shriek shattered the silence. Claudia, her face contorted in a mix of pure shock and blind, foolish rage, stared at the ruined form of her husband.
"Mark!" she screamed, her voice bordering on hysterical.
