Chapter 4
The bright colors of the music room—the rich mahogany of the piano, the vibrant reds and yellows of the floral concert displays, the emerald green of Camille's dress—provided a surreal, beautiful backdrop for the impending execution of justice.
Adrian stood at his full, imposing height. He was deeply masculine, his broad shoulders easily dwarfing the crying toddler in his arms. With slow, deliberate movements, Adrian reached across his chest and unbuttoned his tailored dark suit jacket. He slipped the expensive fabric off his broad shoulders, revealing his crisp white dress shirt and the holster of his concealed firearm resting against his ribs.
He wrapped the heavy, warm suit jacket entirely around Emma, swaddling her to cover her face and protect her from the violence he knew was about to erupt.
"Keep your eyes closed, piccola mia," Adrian whispered softly into her hair.
He moved Emma safely behind him, ensuring his own body formed an impenetrable wall of muscle and bone between his daughter and the woman who had hurt her. Emma clutched the back of his trousers with her uninjured hand, her small, rosy face buried in the dark fabric of his jacket.
Camille, blinded by a catastrophic lack of self-preservation and a desperate need to maintain her aristocratic dominance, misread his protective maneuver as a sign of retreat. Her fair skin flushed with arrogant fury.
"Do not turn your back on me when I am speaking to you, Adrian!" Camille demanded, her voice shrill and echoing off the vaulted ceiling.
She stepped aggressively toward the grand piano, her high heels clicking sharply against the polished wood floor. She reached her manicured hand out, lunging past Adrian’s hip in a deranged attempt to grab Emma by her injured fingers and pull the child out from hiding.
"I said, come here and apologize to me!" Camille yelled, her fingers grazing the sleeve of the suit jacket draped over the little girl.
Adrian did not issue a verbal warning. He did not raise his voice. He simply reacted with the blinding, explosive speed of a man whose boundaries had been violently crossed.
Before Camille’s fingers could even close around the fabric, Adrian’s left hand shot out like a striking viper. His tattooed fingers clamped around Camille’s wrist with the crushing, hydraulic force of an industrial vice.
Camille gasped sharply, her eyes widening in sudden, agonizing shock as the bones in her wrist ground together under his grip. The illusion of her untouchable status vanished in a single, painful second.
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"You... touched her... for the last time," Adrian stated. His voice was a low, guttural vibration that carried no warmth, no romance, and absolutely no mercy.
He stared down at her, his cold, sharp eyes locking onto hers. The charming movie-star aesthetic was completely gone. In its place stood the ruthless, veteran head of the Bellucci syndicate, fully prepared to dismantle the woman standing before him piece by bloody piece.
