Chapter 4
The tension in the bright, vividly colored ballroom was stretched to its absolute breaking point. Jessica Hayes, who had been standing proudly just moments before, suddenly realized the catastrophic mistake she had made. She was still clutching the massive, heavy sterling silver shrimp platter to her chest, her knuckles white, her rosy cheeks entirely drained of color.
"Roland, be reasonable," Jessica attempted to interject, her voice shrill and trembling. "Your daughter is overly emotional. The children are simply undisciplined. We were just—"
Roland didn't let her finish the sentence. He moved with a speed and ferocity that defied his sixty years. In one fluid, violent motion, Roland reached out and grabbed the edge of the heavy shrimp platter directly from Jessica's hands.
Jessica gasped, trying instinctively to hold onto it, but Roland’s strength was overwhelming. He ripped the massive silver tray from her grasp so violently that the older woman stumbled forward, her high heels skidding on the polished marble.
Michael stepped forward, his hands raised in a pathetic attempt to de-escalate the situation. "Roland, stop! You are in my house! You cannot do this here!"
"Your house was built with my money," Roland snarled.
Without a millisecond of hesitation, Roland pivoted his broad shoulders and forcefully hurled the heavy silver platter directly at Michael’s upper body.
The impact was devastating. The solid sterling silver struck Michael squarely in the chest with a sickening, metallic thud. The sheer kinetic force of the throw lifted the thirty-eight-year-old man off his polished dress shoes. A massive wave of cold broth, ice, and jumbo shrimp exploded outward in a bright, chaotic arc, showering the pristine surroundings.
Michael let out a breathless, choked gasp as he staggered violently backward, his arms flailing for balance. He collided directly into Jessica, who was standing right behind him. The combined weight and momentum of the two adults sent them crashing backward into a row of padded banquet chairs.
The chairs buckled and flipped. Michael and Jessica crashed heavily onto the marble floor in a tangled heap of expensive tailored suits, formal gowns, and shattered pride.
The ballroom erupted into complete chaos. Guests screamed, scrambling backward to avoid the flying debris and the wrath of the mafia boss. Crystal glasses shattered on the floor as tables were bumped in the panic.
Michael lay on his back, gasping for air, his custom charcoal suit completely soaked in greasy broth and scattered seafood. Jessica was beside him, her elegant formal outfit ruined, her hair disheveled as she whimpered in pain and profound humiliation.
May you like
Roland stood over them, his chest heaving, his dark three-piece suit completely spotless. The bright light of the chandeliers cast a harsh, unforgiving glare on the two fallen figures. He looked down at them with eyes that held no mercy, no pity, and no hesitation.
There was no dialogue to accompany the violence. The crashing of the chairs and the horrified gasps of the American elite were the only sounds necessary to punctuate the absolute, terrifying dominance that Roland Carter had just reestablished. He had drawn a line in the blood, and he had crossed it without a second thought.
