Chapter 4
At the nearby polished mahogany bar, Alistair Montelli had been standing with his back to the center of the room, speaking in low, measured tones with his senior capos. The sudden crash of silverware and the high-pitched screams instantly severed his conversation.
Alistair slowly turned toward the commotion.
His cold, sharp, intimidating eyes swept across the brightly lit ballroom. The sea of white American guests parted instantly, desperately scrambling out of his line of sight. He saw the overturned plates. He saw his trusted caregiver clutching her ribs against the banquet table. He saw his four-year-old daughter, soaking wet and shivering violently in her wheelchair. And he saw his fiancée standing over them both.
The deeply masculine, terrifying aura of the veteran Mafia boss expanded, completely suffocating the massive room. The charming, romantic look on his face vanished entirely, replaced by the apex predator of the criminal underworld realizing his bloodline had been attacked.
Alistair did not run. He walked with a slow, predatory grace. His polished leather shoes made heavy, deliberate sounds against the marble.
Corinne, sensing the apocalyptic shift in the room's atmosphere, turned around. Seeing Alistair approaching, pure panic flooded her veins. Desperate to hide the evidence of her cruelty and regain control of the narrative, she spun back around and aggressively grabbed the handles of Sadie’s wheelchair.
"Come along, Sadie, let's go get you dried off," Corinne stammered, her voice breathless and high-pitched as she tried to frantically push the wheelchair toward the rear exit of the ballroom. "It was just a clumsy accident!"
She didn't make it two steps.
Alistair closed the distance with terrifying, explosive speed. He reached out with his large, heavily tattooed hands. He caught both handles of the wheelchair, his grip clamping down over Corinne’s manicured fingers with the crushing force of an industrial vise.
Corinne let out a sharp gasp of pain.
Without a single word, Alistair violently tore Corinne’s hands away from the wheelchair. Utilizing the immense, deeply masculine power of his broad shoulders, he forcefully hurled his fiancée backward.
The kinetic force lifted Corinne off her designer heels. She flew backward, entirely out of control, her luxurious formal gown twisting around her legs. She crashed heavily into a padded banquet chair, the chair skidding aggressively across the floor before slamming into a pillar. Corinne collapsed into the cushions, gasping for air, her diamond earrings swinging wildly.
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There was no dialogue. The overwhelming, brutal reality of the violence silenced every single person in the room.
From the shadows of the room, the estate’s security apparatus responded. Two massive, heavily armed bodyguards in dark suits stepped forward immediately. They moved with silent, military precision, taking up positions directly behind the chair where Corinne sat gasping. They formed an impenetrable wall, ensuring she could not move an inch.
