Chapter 3
The tension in the brightly lit recovery wing was a physical weight pressing down on everyone's shoulders. The cinematic sunlight highlighted the beads of sweat forming on Dominic’s fair, rosy forehead. Blinded by his own wounded pride and a desperate need to assert his authority over the paralyzed boss, Dominic made a catastrophic miscalculation.
"You want to talk about weak?" Dominic sneered, his crisp American accent turning venomous. "You can't even stand up, Angelo. You are a cripple. The only reason this family is still breathing is because I took the reins!"
"Dominic, stop!" Vincent, the head bodyguard, warned from the doorway, stepping forward.
"Shut up, Vincent!" Dominic roared, pointing a finger at the guard. He then turned his furious gaze back toward Emma, who was clutching Noah tightly against her apron. "And you! I told you to get that brat out of my sight!"
Driven by sheer, unhinged frustration, Dominic lunged aggressively toward Emma. He reached his hands out, fully intending to grab the twenty-seven-year-old maid and physically drag her and her child out of the room.
He never even laid a finger on her.
As Dominic stepped into the space beside the wheelchair, Angelo’s arm shot out with blinding, explosive speed. The Mafia boss caught Dominic’s wrist mid-lunge. His grip clamped around his cousin's forearm like an industrial steel vise.
"Let go of me!" Dominic shouted, struggling violently to pull his arm free.
Angelo didn't flinch. Utilizing the immense, terrifying strength of his upper body, Angelo violently pulled his cousin forward, completely destroying the older man's balance. As Dominic stumbled helplessly toward the wheelchair, Angelo pivoted his broad shoulders.
With devastating, kinetic force, Angelo drove one explosive, seated hook straight across Dominic’s face.
The heavy family signet ring on Angelo’s hand connected squarely with Dominic’s jawline. The loud, sickening crack of bone echoed through the pristine white room.
The sheer power of the blow lifted the forty-one-year-old acting capo right out of his polished leather shoes. Dominic spun violently backward, entirely out of control, flying directly toward the tall rehabilitation-storage rack stationed against the wall.
He crashed into the heavy metal shelving with the force of a wrecking ball. The entire frame buckled sideways under his weight, groaning with a horrific screech of tearing metal.
Padded therapy blocks burst from the upper shelves, raining down in bright colors. Heavy, lightweight medicine balls tumbled free, bouncing chaotically across the flawless floor. Folded exercise mats unfurled beneath him like a morbid red carpet, and thick rubber resistance bands snapped loose, draping over Dominic’s shoulders as he crashed catastrophically through the collapsing lower rack.
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He hit the floor in a tangled, groaning heap of twisted metal, colorful foam, and heavy rubber, his expensive tailored suit completely ruined, blood already pouring from his shattered jaw onto the bright white tiles. He lay utterly incapacitated, gasping for air.
Angelo remained perfectly seated in his custom black wheelchair, his breathing even, his dark eyes radiating pure, unadulterated murder as he stared down at the wreckage.
