Chapter 5
The sheer, apocalyptic violence of Dante’s counterpunch left the remaining men paralyzed. The bright, cinematic video colors of the room seemed to sharpen, illuminating the absolute destruction of the orthotic cart and the bleeding, unconscious form of Marcus Bellandi. The total absence of background music made the silence incredibly heavy, suffocating everyone who witnessed the Mafia Boss exert his power.
Grant Cole, standing near the center of the room, stared at his fallen employer. His fair, rosy skin had turned the color of ash. Panic and adrenaline warring in his system, Grant realized he was the only one left standing who had participated in the assault on the Boss’s family.
Driven by blind, irrational fear, Grant decided his only path of escape was through the teenager blocking the exit. He charged forward, his heavy riding boots thudding loudly against the tile, lowering his shoulder to tackle Leo out of the way.
"Get out of my way, kid!" Grant roared, his American accent slurred with panic.
He never even made it halfway to the boy.
Dante moved with terrifying, fluid speed. He intercepted Grant’s charge effortlessly, stepping directly into the older man's path. As Grant collided with him, Dante did not yield a single inch. He planted his back foot, chambered his knee, and drove one incredibly powerful, flawless front kick directly into the center of Grant’s torso.
The impact sounded like a heavy wooden bat striking a side of beef. All the air exploded from Grant’s lungs in a violent, ragged wheeze.
The kinetic energy of the kick launched Grant backward. He shot across the room as if fired from a cannon, completely out of control. He hurtled directly into the massive, wall-mounted riding-boot fitting rack.
The collision was spectacular. Grant crashed into the heavy wooden structure, buckling the support beams instantly. Dozens of empty, wooden boot forms toppled from their pegs, raining down like heavy wooden hail. Thick, quilted saddle pads slid from the neighboring shelves, blanketing the floor in colorful fabrics. Heavy black equipment cases crashed down from the top tier, slamming onto the padded floor around Grant’s collapsing body.
Grant fell into the center of the wreckage, entirely incapacitated, clutching his ribs as he gasped desperately for air that his bruised lungs refused to accept.
Once again, no dialogue was spoken. The violence was absolute, precise, and definitively concluded in less than ten seconds.
Dante lowered his leg, his chest rising and falling in slow, measured breaths. He smoothed the lapels of his tailored dark suit, the few loose strands of wavy hair falling perfectly back over his forehead. He looked at the two broken men littering the floor of the clinic, his cold, intimidating eyes utterly devoid of human empathy or remorse.
He slowly turned his head to look at Leo. The fifteen-year-old was staring at his uncle in pure awe, his fists finally unclenching.
"Are you hurt, Leo?" Dante asked. He spoke slowly, with those signature controlled pauses between words. His volume was incredibly low, a dark, raspy hum that commanded the very oxygen in the room. Every sentence he delivered sounded measured, cold, and immensely dangerous.
"No, Uncle Dante," Leo breathed, straightening his equestrian jacket. "I'm okay. I didn't let them touch her."
"You did well," Dante murmured, a faint ghost of approval touching his eyes. He turned his imposing, deeply masculine frame toward the examination bench, where Dr. Emma was still shielding his weeping daughter. "Emma. Are you unharmed?"
May you like
"Yes, Mr. Bellandi," Dr. Emma stammered, her hands shaking as she pushed her protective glasses back up the bridge of her nose. "I am fine. But Lily is in a great deal of distress."
Dante walked slowly to the bench, his polished leather shoes crunching over a scattered fitting block.
