Chapter 3
Helena’s panic rapidly morphed into a desperate, feral rage. Realizing that Ava’s innocent words had just signed their death warrants, the sixty-five-year-old matriarch completely lost her grip on reality. Blaming the child for the collapse of her meticulously planned coup, Helena lunged toward Ava again, her manicured hands hooked into claws.
"You little liar!" Helena screamed, her elegant formal outfit twisting as she threw her body forward.
Matteo intercepted her with the brutal, effortless grace of an apex predator.
He stepped directly into her path, his broad shoulders blocking out the bright, cinematic light. Without a fraction of hesitation or mercy, Matteo drew his arm back and delivered one powerful, thunderous open-handed slap directly across Helena’s face.
The kinetic force of the blow was staggering. Helena’s head snapped violently to the side. She staggered backward, her high heels twisting uselessly against the polished floor. She crashed backward into an empty dining chair, collapsing into the upholstery in a disheveled, groaning heap. A bright red handprint immediately began to bloom across her fair, rosy cheek.
Simultaneously, Dominic broke into a sprint toward the grand double doors.
"Get out of my way!" Dominic roared, reaching into his tailored suit jacket for the concealed weapon he always carried.
Before his fingers could even graze the steel of his firearm, the heavy mahogany doors swung shut. Four massive, white American bodyguards in professional dark suits stepped seamlessly into his path, forming an impenetrable wall of muscle and loyalty. They did not draw their weapons; they simply stood shoulder-to-shoulder, their cold eyes fixed on the traitorous capo.
Dominic slammed into the chest of the largest bodyguard, bouncing off the man as if he had hit a brick wall. He stumbled backward, his breathing shallow and rapid, realizing he was entirely trapped inside the bright, vibrant dining room.
There was no dialogue. The silence in the room was absolute, broken only by Ava’s quiet, muffled sobs against Matteo’s leg and the heavy, ragged breathing of the two conspirators.
Matteo remained perfectly still. He slowly adjusted the cuffs of his tailored three-piece suit, the artistic tattoos on his hands flexing with the movement. He kept Ava securely beside him, his large, protective hand resting gently on her back.
He slowly turned his head, looking from the weeping woman in the chair to the terrified man trapped by the door. His intimidating, sharp eyes burned with a dark, freezing fire.
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"Why does my daughter have to call someone else Dad?" Matteo asked, his low, menacing voice echoing softly in the cavernous room. He took one slow, deliberate step toward his cousin. "And why do I have to be gone?"
Dominic lowered his eyes, entirely unable to meet the lethal, movie-star gaze of the man he had conspired to murder.
