Chapter 6
The bright, cinematic daylight caught the flash of Chase’s expensive wristwatch as his fist sliced through the air. The punch was heavy and meant to devastate, but to a veteran like Cullen Ravello, it moved with agonizing, predictable slowness.
Cullen did not flinch. With the effortless, fluid grace of a predator, he merely slipped his head to the outside. The strike sailed harmlessly past his ear, the sudden displacement of air rustling the loose strands of his slightly wavy hair. The momentum of the missed punch pulled Chase forward, throwing the older man completely off balance and exposing the entire left side of his face.
Before Chase could even register his mistake, Cullen retaliated.
Planting his polished leather shoe firmly against the conservatory tiles, Cullen rotated his hips and drove one explosive, thunderous counterpunch straight across Chase’s face.
The impact was catastrophic. The sickening crunch of breaking cartilage echoed loudly off the glass walls. The sheer, overwhelming kinetic force of the blow lifted the forty-two-year-old man completely off his feet.
Chase was sent spinning violently backward, entirely out of control. He hurtled across the bright room, flying directly toward the massive, tiered ceramic planter stand that housed the estate's indoor citrus trees.
He crashed into the heavy wooden tiers with the force of a wrecking ball.
The entire structure buckled instantly under his weight. Huge ceramic pots tumbled from their shelves, shattering explosively into thousands of sharp, terracotta shards against the tile floor. Thick citrus branches shook violently, snapping under the pressure and raining bright green leaves through the air. Rich, dark soil burst outward in a massive cloud, spraying across the pristine white tiles and ruining the flawless aesthetic of the room.
Chase crashed entirely through the collapsing wooden tiers, hitting the ground in a tangled, groaning heap of dirt, broken ceramic, and crushed foliage. He lay pinned beneath the wreckage, completely incapacitated before he had even stopped sliding.
There was no dialogue. The sheer, brutal reality of the violence silenced the room entirely.
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Cullen stood in the center of the conservatory, his breathing perfectly even, his dark suit completely unruffled. He slowly lowered his tattooed fist, flexing his sharp, elegant fingers as if checking a minor annoyance. He did not look at the bleeding man buried in the dirt. He turned his head slowly, his cold, intimidating eyes fixing entirely upon Tove.
The bright sunlight illuminated the sheer, unadulterated terror blooming on her fair, rosy face. The handsome, charming movie-star facade had completely vanished, leaving only the lethal, unforgiving Mafia Boss standing in her path.
