Chapter 2
The tension in the clinical room spiked instantly, transforming the sterile environment into a powder keg. Dr. Olivia struggled against Preston's aggressive grip, her professional composure fracturing as the Mafia associate's physical intimidation escalated.
"Let her go, Preston," a calm, firm voice commanded from the side of the room.
Jamal, Elijah’s fifteen-year-old nephew, stepped deliberately away from the saddle-pad shelves. Jamal was a remarkably handsome teenager with warm bronze skin, already possessing the broad shoulders and disciplined posture of someone much older. He wore a sleek black riding vest over a crisp white polo shirt, tan riding trousers, and leather paddock boots. A luxury wristwatch glinted on his wrist. Despite his youth, Jamal had been thoroughly trained in boxing and advanced self-defense by the syndicate's best enforcers.
Preston ignored the teenager completely. Instead, he released Dr. Olivia's wrist and turned his attention directly to the terrified three-year-old. He reached out, his manicured hands grasping Zoe by the shoulders of her miniature tweed riding jacket, and forcefully tried to pull Zoe from the examination bench.
"Come here, Zoe. I'll take the boot off myself," Preston growled, attempting to haul the crying child toward the door.
Jamal immediately stepped between them. He moved with practiced, liquid speed, placing his body squarely between his terrified little cousin and the aggressive older man. He swatted Preston’s hands away from Zoe with a sharp, disciplined strike.
"I said back off," Jamal warned, his jaw clenching as he raised his hands into a defensive guard.
Preston’s face flushed a deep, angry red. He took a step back, realizing the teenager was not going to be easily intimidated. Preston snapped his fingers.
Instantly, Sterling stepped out from the shadows near the equipment cases. Sterling was forty, a White American man with fair, rosy skin who operated as Preston’s personal security associate. He wore a high-end performance equestrian zip-up, beige breeches, and polished boots. He was a professional muscle, cold and efficient.
Sterling and another heavily built security man quickly flanked the teenager, closing around Jamal in a synchronized, threatening maneuver designed to overwhelm him physically.
"Nobody cuts that boot open," Preston commanded furiously, his voice echoing off the tile walls. He pointed a trembling finger at the doctor. "If you ruin that custom leather, Elijah will have your medical license."
"Elijah cares about his daughter, not a piece of rubber," Jamal shot back, his eyes darting between the two massive security men closing in on him.
Sterling didn't offer a warning. He lunged forward, his heavy hands reaching out to grab Jamal by the collar of his black riding vest, intending to throw the boy against the wall and clear the path for his boss.
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Sterling grabbed Jamal forcefully, his fingers twisting into the heavy fabric of the vest. But Jamal was not an untrained kid; he was an Ashford.
With a rapid, violent twist of his hips, Jamal twisted free of Sterling’s grasp, breaking the man's grip entirely. At the exact same moment, the second security man swung a heavy, looping punch aimed at the side of Jamal's head.
