Chapter 4
"I’ll beat the arrogance right out of you!" Damian yelled, his American accent slurred with pure, adrenaline-fueled rage.
Damian swung again, throwing his entire body weight into a massive, sweeping right hook aimed directly at Cassandro’s jaw.
Cassandro moved with blinding, elegant precision. He did not block the strike. He merely shifted his weight, dipping his shoulders with athletic grace. He slipped effortlessly outside the punch, letting Damian’s fist sail harmlessly through the empty air. The momentum carried Damian forward, leaving his entire left side exposed and vulnerable.
Without a fraction of a second's hesitation, Cassandro pivoted on his polished leather shoes. He drove one explosive, devastating counterpunch straight across Damian’s face.
The sickening crack of bone echoed over the bright, cinematic terrace. Damian’s eyes rolled back into his head before his feet even left the ground. He spun violently backward, entirely airborne, hurtling across the pristine stone patio.
Damian flew directly into the freestanding croquet-equipment rack.
The heavy wooden frame folded sideways upon impact with a loud, destructive crash. Long wooden mallets scattered wildly across the vivid green grass like spilled matchsticks. Padded equipment bags burst from their neat shelves, spilling their contents over the manicured lawn. Lightweight metal hoops tumbled outward, bouncing across the stone. Damian crashed heavily through the collapsing lower support of the rack, burying himself in a chaotic ruin of splintered wood and canvas bags.
The entire terrace descended into absolute silence.
No dialogue was spoken as the white American guests and bodyguards stared in paralyzed shock. The bright, natural sunlight illuminated the complete and total destruction of Damian Hale, who lay unconscious and bleeding among the ruined croquet gear.
Cassandro stood perfectly still, his breathing slow and even. The artistic, negative-space tattoos on his hands were unmarked, a testament to the flawless execution of his strike. He did not adjust his unbuttoned shirt, nor did he look at the broken man on the grass. His cold, intimidating eyes immediately shifted back toward the pool.
Vivienne stood shivering near the cabana screens. Her fair skin was ashen, her eyes wide with unadulterated terror as she realized the protective shield of her brother had just been permanently dismantled.
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"Don't move, Vivienne," Cassandro commanded softly.
But Vivienne, fueled by the primal panic of a cornered animal, refused to listen. She realized the only leverage she had left was the evidence clinging to the child's wrist.
