Chapter 4
"Roman, what are you doing?" Vivian demanded, her aristocratic composure finally showing hairline fractures. Her pearl necklace rattled slightly against her collarbone. "Do not be overly dramatic in front of the men. It is unbecoming of a Boss."
Vivian stood up, her high heels clicking sharply against the hardwood floor. Driven by a desperate need to maintain her matriarchal authority, she stepped around the table and reached down. She grabbed Milo violently by the wrist, attempting to yank the three-year-old away from his father's protective shadow.
"Get back under the table, boy," Vivian hissed, trying to force him back toward the dog bowl. "Your father and I are speaking."
Milo screamed, terrified, his sneakers sliding against the floor as he fought against her grip.
Roman moved with blinding, explosive speed.
He reached out, his tattooed hand clamping over Vivian's wrist like a steel vice. With a brutal, merciless twist, Roman tore her hand away from his son. Before Vivian could even register the pain or utter a single word of protest, Roman pivoted his shoulder and delivered one thunderous, open-handed slap directly across her face.
The sound of the impact cracked through the dining room like a gunshot.
The sheer kinetic force of the blow lifted the sixty-seven-year-old woman off her feet. Vivian spun violently sideways, her arms flailing as she lost all equilibrium. She hurtled across the dining space, crashing directly into the large, tall silver serving trolley positioned near the wall.
The collision was catastrophic. The heavy trolley rocketed across the floor under her weight, its wheels screeching until it violently struck the far wall. The impact shattered the pristine organization of the banquet service. Heavy silver serving domes tumbled open, crashing to the floor with deafening metallic clangs. Wicker bread baskets overturned, sending warm rolls scattering across the room. Dozens of perfectly folded white linen napkins exploded into the air, fluttering down like a chaotic snowstorm. Silver serving utensils scattered loudly across the hardwood.
Vivian collapsed heavily beside the lower shelf of the ruined trolley. She lay in a heap of elegant fabric and ruined food, gasping for breath, her fair, rosy face bearing a massive, bright red handprint.
The entire dining room froze in a state of absolute, paralyzed shock.
Not a single capo or bodyguard moved. The silence in the room was heavier than concrete. The bright, cinematic lighting illuminated the total destruction of the serving trolley and the fallen matriarch.
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Roman stood perfectly still. He did not rub his hand. He did not adjust his shirt. His chest rose and fell in slow, measured, terrifying breaths. He stared down at his mother, his cold, sharp eyes devoid of any human empathy.
No dialogue broke the tension. The only sound was the faint, terrifying whimpering of Sophia, who had dropped her fork and was pressing her hands over her mouth in sheer terror. Roman had just dismantled the untouchable matriarch of the Valenti family in a single second.
