Chapter 3
Grant’s lunge was aggressive and heavy, but compared to the veteran Mafia boss, it was entirely pathetic. Alex Vance did not flinch, nor did he release his secure hold on his weeping three-year-old daughter.
As Grant’s arm shot forward, Alex simply rotated his hips, letting the strike sail harmlessly past his dark tailored suit. In the exact same fluid motion, Alex’s free right hand snapped out with blinding, terrifying speed. The artistic, refined tattoos on his hand blurred as his fingers clamped down around Grant’s outstretched wrist like an industrial vice.
Grant gasped, his eyes widening in sudden, sharp pain as his forward momentum was violently arrested.
Without a single word, Alex twisted his torso underneath Grant’s trapped arm. Using his cousin's own body weight and momentum against him, Alex drove his shoulder brutally into Grant’s chest and threw him entirely off balance.
Alex drove Grant forward, launching the forty-year-old man shoulder-first directly into the loaded, heavy metal serving trolley parked just inside the kitchen archway.
The kinetic force of the impact was catastrophic. Grant smashed into the trolley with a sickening crunch. The heavy cart rocketed violently backward across the polished tiles of the catering kitchen.
The trolley slammed directly into a massive, multi-tiered rolling catering rack.
The destruction was absolute. Heavy metal serving trays crashed violently onto the floor, bending under the impact. Stacks of pristine white ceramic dishes slid apart, bursting into a thousand jagged, sharp fragments across the tiles. Huge woven linen baskets overturned, sending hundreds of white napkins fluttering through the air like a sudden snowstorm. Silver serving utensils scattered wildly, clattering across the floor in a chaotic, deafening symphony of ruin.
Grant collapsed heavily, crashing through the center of the tilted, splintering catering rack. He hit the floor buried under a mountain of broken ceramics, bent metal, and white linens. He groaned in agony, clutching his ribs, entirely unable to stand.
There was no dialogue. The entire dining room descended into a heavy, ringing silence. The polite laughter of the guests ceased immediately. The clinking of crystal glasses stopped.
Alex stood perfectly still in the archway, his chest rising and falling in a slow, controlled rhythm. He adjusted the cuff of his crisp dress shirt, the heavy family signet ring catching the bright cinematic light. He kept Rosie tucked safely against his chest. He did not even look at the broken man bleeding on the kitchen floor.
Evelyn, witnessing the brutal, effortless dismantling of her nephew, finally realized the absolute terror of the monster she had awakened. Her arrogant facade cracked. Driven by a blind, irrational panic to regain control of the narrative, she lunged forward.
"Give me the child!" Evelyn shrieked, reaching her heavily ringed, manicured hands out aggressively toward Rosie. "You are unstable, Alex! You are scaring her!"
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Alex moved with the speed of a striking viper. He raised his right arm, effortlessly blocking Evelyn’s grasping hands, knocking her wrists violently away before she could even brush the fabric of Rosie’s dress.
Then, completely ignoring the gasping woman, Alex turned his cold, sharp eyes toward the catering kitchen. He took one deliberate step toward the overflowing sink, reaching his large, masculine hand toward the massive, steaming soup pot that Evelyn had used as a weapon against his family.
