Chapter 4
Marcus closed the distance with terrifying speed, his arm fully extended toward the terrified housekeeper. Emma gasped, squeezing her eyes shut and bracing for the impact, but she did not drop the smartphone.
Vittorio moved with explosive, lethal precision.
With his left arm, he effortlessly swung Lucy safely behind his broad back, depositing her gently onto the floor directly beside Emma. In the exact same fluid motion, Vittorio stepped directly into Marcus’s path.
Marcus realized his mistake a fraction of a second too late. He tried to pull his arm back, but Vittorio’s right hand shot out like a striking viper. Vittorio’s large fingers clamped onto Marcus’s forearm, blocking the strike with the crushing, immovable force of a concrete wall.
No dialogue was spoken. The violence was absolute.
Vittorio twisted his hips, engaging the massive, deeply masculine strength of his core. He pulled his right arm back and drove one explosive, devastating counterpunch straight across Marcus’s jaw.
The sickening crunch of shattering bone echoed through the breakfast room like a gunshot.
The sheer kinetic force of the blow lifted the thirty-nine-year-old Mafia associate entirely off his feet. Marcus spun violently backward, completely airborne, his arms flailing uselessly as he hurtled across the room.
He crashed directly into the freestanding antique map rack.
The collision was catastrophic. The heavy wooden frame of the rack snapped sideways under his weight with a deafening crack. Dozens of heavily rolled parchment maps burst from their designated slots, flying into the air. Expensive, leather-bound map cases scattered wildly across the polished floorboards, bouncing and skidding into the walls.
Marcus crashed brutally beneath the collapsing rack, burying himself in a chaotic ruin of splintered wood and scattered history. He hit the floor with a heavy, wet thud and remained completely motionless, knocked unconscious instantly. Blood began to pool on his fair, rosy skin, staining the collar of his expensive tailored suit.
The silence that descended upon the room was absolute and suffocating.
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Vittorio stood perfectly still, his tailored dark suit immaculate. He did not rub his knuckles. He did not adjust his cuffs. His chest rose and fell in slow, measured breaths. His cold, intimidating eyes slowly shifted from the broken man on the floor back toward his fiancée.
Bianca was frozen in place, staring at her brother's unconscious body in pure, unadulterated horror. She had just witnessed the absolute, terrifying reality of the man she had planned to marry. He wasn't just a wealthy businessman; he was a warlord, and she had just tortured his only child.
