Chapter 3
Richard closed his eyes for a single heartbeat, his jaw clenching so hard the muscle bulged beneath his skin. He tucked Noah’s freezing feet inside the heavy lining of the overcoat, pressing the boy against the heat of his own body.
"I have you, Noah," Richard murmured, his deep baritone trembling with a rare, suffocating tenderness. "You're safe now, my boy. Grandpa is right here."
"I was cold, Grandpa," Noah whimpered into his collar. "Auntie said you didn't want me."
"Auntie lied," Richard said softly. "Breathe, little one."
Richard stood to his full, towering height and carried the bundled child back through the threshold into the bright warmth of the lodge. The temperature in the entrance hall seemed to drop fifty degrees the moment his boots struck the timber flooring. He reached down with his free hand and scooped the wet, handmade wooden airplane from the snowy threshold, tucking it securely under his arm.
From beside the long gift-wrapping table, thirty-eight-year-old Mark Bellacorte finally stepped forward. He wore a thousand-dollar cream cashmere sweater, perfectly creased trousers, and polished loafers. He held a glass of bourbon in one hand, an expression of mild annoyance twisting his handsome, weak face.
"Dad, give him to the nanny," Mark said, reaching a careless hand out toward the wooden toy. "It’s just a small punishment. He wouldn't stop crying in the library, and Claudia was trying to set the seating chart."
Richard did not hand over the child. He slowly turned his head, his cold, merciless eyes locking onto his only son. The look was so devoid of warmth that Mark's outstretched hand froze in mid-air.
"A small punishment?" Richard asked, his voice a low, terrifying rumble that silenced every whisper in the lodge.
"He's three years old, Dad! He threw a tantrum!" Mark scoffed, irritated by the dramatic entrance in front of forty capos. Driven by stubborn arrogance and fueled by bourbon, Mark lunged forward to grab Noah by the arm. "Give him here, Dad. You're spoiling him. He needs to learn discipline before dinner."
"Don't touch him, Mark," Richard warned, barely above a whisper.
"He's my kid!" Mark barked, reaching again.
Richard did not flinch. His left arm cradled Noah against his ribs like an iron band. His right hand came up like a piston, batting Mark’s reaching arm aside before driving one explosive, bone-shattering counterpunch straight across Mark’s jaw.
The crack of knuckles against bone echoed like a gunshot.
Mark’s head snapped violently sideways. The kinetic force lifted the grown man off his feet, spinning him backward through the air. He crashed full-weight into the heavy wooden wine trolley.
The trolley buckled under his momentum, its brass casters shearing off as it rocketed directly into the elaborate decorative sled display. The wooden sleds splintered, sending racks of vintage crystal stemware exploding into hundreds of sparkling shards. Towering gift boxes wrapped in silver and gold collapsed in an avalanche of torn paper and satin ribbons, burying Mark’s groaning, bleeding form beneath shattered glass and spilled pinot noir.
A collective gasp ripped through the hall. Two bodyguards by the stairs reached instinctively inside their blazers, but froze when they saw who had thrown the punch.
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Seeing her husband crushed in the wreckage, Claudia lost what little sanity she had left. Screaming with hysterical entitlement, she lunged toward Richard, her claw-like nails aiming straight for the wooden airplane tucked under his arm.
"Give me that filthy garbage!" she shrieked. "You don't hit my husband over that little bastard!"
