Chapter 5
The air in the luxury boutique gala turned to solid ice. The bright, cinematic lighting offered absolutely no shadows for Grant Mercer to hide in. The forty-two-year-old senior security man stood frozen near the mirrored display panels, his fair, rosy skin instantly draining of all color, leaving him a sickly, ashen pale. The heavy gold cufflinks on his wrists suddenly felt like lead weights.
Damian Bellucci did not shout. He did not issue a command to his other bodyguards. He turned sharply toward Grant, his angular face and sharply defined jawline setting into a mask of pure, unadulterated executioner’s wrath.
"Boss, wait, it's not what it looks like!" Grant stammered, his American accent cracking into a high-pitched, desperate whine. He held his hands up in a placating gesture, taking a hesitant step backward. "The kid is confused! I was trying to catch the glass! The base was unstable, I swear to God!"
"You swear... to God," Damian repeated. He spoke slowly, with controlled pauses between his words. His volume was terrifyingly low, carrying a measured, cold, and immensely dangerous promise. "You should start praying to Him... right now."
Grant looked into Damian’s cold, sharp eyes and saw his own death staring back at him. The veteran Mafia Boss was not going to ask for a report. He was going to commit murder in front of two hundred wealthy guests.
Driven by the pure, adrenaline-fueled instinct of a cornered animal, Grant suddenly bolted.
He spun on his polished leather shoes and sprinted desperately for the heavy, closed ballroom doors at the far end of the hall. He shoved violently past a group of shrieking, fair-skinned guests, his tailored dark suit blurring in the bright video colors of the room.
"Stop him!" Celeste screamed from the sidelines, finally realizing the catastrophic magnitude of what had just occurred, desperately trying to distance herself from the man who had just attempted to murder the heir to the family.
Damian did not need assistance.
He moved with blinding, explosive speed, a terrifying display of raw, deeply masculine power. He didn't run; he hunted. His polished leather shoes practically tore the marble as he launched himself across the room in pursuit. He bypassed the shattered crystal and the cowering guests, his eyes locked entirely on the fleeing traitor.
"Grant!" Damian roared, his voice finally breaking its low volume, echoing off the high ceilings like a thunderclap.
Grant reached out, his fingers grazing the brass handles of the massive ballroom doors, desperately hoping to breach the perimeter and escape into the night. He was less than a second away from freedom.
But Damian was faster.
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Damian overtook him with brutal efficiency. He reached out with his heavily tattooed hand, his sharp, refined designs flashing in the bright light, and grabbed the thick fabric of Grant’s shoulder pad. His grip was like an industrial vice, halting the older man's momentum instantly and violently.
"Where... do you think... you are going?" Damian whispered right into the traitor's ear, the coldness of his tone promising absolute devastation.
