Chapter 6
The bright, natural, cinematic lighting of the gala illuminated the exact moment Grant Mercer realized his life was over. The neutral white balance offered a flawless, high-definition view of his terror.
"Damian, please! I'll tell you everything!" Grant shrieked, his American accent pitching into a hysterical sob as he tried to pry Damian’s tattooed fingers off his shoulder.
"You will... tell me everything," Damian agreed, his voice a lethal, vibrating hum. "But first... you bleed."
With a sudden, explosive exertion of pure, masculine force, Damian used his grip on Grant's shoulder to violently spin the forty-two-year-old man around. Grant’s polished leather shoes skidded helplessly against the marble. As Grant spun to face him, his arms flailing wildly for balance, Damian planted his feet and unleashed hell.
Damian drove one devastating, explosive punch straight across Grant’s face.
The kinetic force of the blow was catastrophic. The heavy family signet ring on Damian’s hand connected squarely with the fair, rosy skin of Grant’s jawline. A sickening, resonant crack echoed through the massive room as bone fractured under the impact.
The sheer power of the strike lifted Grant completely off his feet. His body whipped violently sideways, launched through the air completely out of control. He hurtled directly toward the massive, illuminated designer-shoe display lining the wall.
Grant slammed into the display with the force of a speeding vehicle. His shoulder smashed brutally through the heavy, mirrored center panel.
The impact was deafening. The thick mirror did not shatter into pieces; instead, it fractured instantly into a massive, intricate spiderweb pattern, remaining mounted in its frame but entirely destroyed. The bright lights embedded in the display flickered and sparked.
The structural integrity of the display failed completely. Heavy acrylic shelves burst loose from their mountings with sharp, cracking sounds. Dozens of high-end designer display shoes and heavy cardboard shoeboxes cascaded downward in a chaotic, brightly colored waterfall, raining heavily over Grant’s head and shoulders.
To compound the destruction, two tall, heavy mannequin stands positioned beside the mirror toppled sideways, their heavy metal bases swinging through the air before crashing heavily onto the plush carpet beneath the destroyed display.
Grant crashed to the floor, buried beneath the avalanche of acrylic, shoes, and mannequins. He lay in a tangled, groaning heap, his tailored suit ruined, blood already pouring from his shattered jaw onto his crisp white dress shirt.
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There was no dialogue. The overwhelming, brutal reality of the violence silenced every single person in the room. The guests held their breath, their eyes wide with unadulterated horror.
Damian stood a few feet away, his chest heaving slowly. The loose strands of his wavy hair shifted slightly as he lowered his fist. His cold, intimidating eyes remained locked on the broken man struggling weakly in the debris, his face an emotionless mask of a veteran executioner waiting for his prey to move.
