Claudia depraved enough to rip a child’s handmade gift from her hands and banish a barefoot

Before the dust could settle from the collapsing coat rack, Claudia Bellacorte lunged forward. Her face, usually a mask of poised, aristocratic superiority, was contorted into an ugly visage of absolute rage. The diamonds at her throat flashed in the bright, cinematic light as she stormed across the room, her high heels clicking aggressively against the marble floor.

"Are you insane?!" Claudia shrieked, her American accent cracking with hysteria. She pointed a manicured finger at the pile of wood and coats. "You just assaulted your own son! For what? For trying to discipline a filthy little brat who ruins everything?!"

She didn't stop there. Blinded by fury and the humiliation of seeing her husband laid out before the entire syndicate, Claudia angrily reached out her hand, her long nails aiming directly for Lily’s face to rip the child from Richard’s arms.

Richard’s reflexes were predatory. He sharply knocked her reaching hand away with the back of his wrist, his artistic tattoos blurring in the light. In the very next fraction of a second, he pivoted and delivered one thunderous, open-handed slap across Claudia’s cheek.

The impact sounded like a gunshot echoing through the high-ceilinged room.

Claudia spun violently backward, the force of the blow carrying her off her feet. She crashed backward into the elaborate birthday wrapping station. The long, decorative table folded completely beneath her weight.

Rolls of heavy, metallic wrapping paper shot across the polished floor like torpedoes. Spools of expensive silk ribbon unraveled wildly, trailing through the lounge in chaotic webs of gold and crimson. Perfectly stacked gift boxes burst open upon impact, and a shower of metallic bows rained down over Claudia as she landed hard inside the ruined, splintered display.

She lay there, gasping for breath, her elegant winter gown tangled in ribbons, a bright, furious red handprint already blooming across her fair, rosy cheek.

Every single guest in the room fell utterly, terrifyingly silent. Men who commanded armies of enforcers and moved millions of dollars in illicit cargo held their breath.

Richard stood towering over the wreckage of his own family. He did not yell. He did not pant with exertion. His breathing was slow, his posture perfect. He looked down at the crumpled, hand-drawn birthday picture he still held in his right hand. The edges were slightly damp from the snow, the crude crayon lines depicting a tall man and a small girl holding hands.

He slowly brought the drawing up and held it flat against his chest, right over his heart.