Chapter 5
The bright, natural daylight of the ballroom offered absolutely no shadows for Marcus Bellandi to hide his fatal arrogance. The cinematic lighting caught the confident, mocking smirk on the forty-year-old capo’s fair, rosy face. He truly believed he had politically cornered the head of the syndicate.
Lorenzo Bellandi did not telegraph his movement. He did not pull his arm back or shift his stance in warning.
Operating with the deeply masculine, explosive power of a veteran street enforcer, Lorenzo planted his polished leather shoes firmly onto the marble floor. He channeled the entirety of his volcanic, homicidal rage into his right shoulder and drove one catastrophic, explosive punch straight into Marcus’s upper body.
The heavy gold family signet ring on Lorenzo’s hand connected squarely with the center of Marcus’s chest with a sickening, deafening crack that echoed like a rifle shot across the vast ballroom.
The immense kinetic force of the blow was absolute. It lifted the forty-year-old capo completely off his feet. Marcus’s eyes rolled back in his head instantly, all the air detonating from his lungs in a violent, bloody spray.
Marcus spun violently backward, completely out of control. His arms flailed uselessly in the air as he was launched across the polished marble, hurtling directly toward the narrow console loaded with silver serving domes that stood near the edge of the dining area.
He crashed into the heavy wooden console with the force of a speeding vehicle.
The impact was thunderous. The antique console jerked violently sideways under the massive weight, its carved wooden legs buckling and shrieking against the floor.
Heavy, polished metal serving domes launched from the surface like artillery shells, flying through the bright, vivid air. Massive, gleaming silver trays flipped outward, spinning across the marble floor and crashing loudly into the walls. Hundreds of perfectly folded, pristine white napkins scattered chaotically through the air, fluttering down like a bizarre snowstorm amidst the total destruction.
Marcus crashed heavily down among the collapsed serving pieces. He hit the floor in a tangled, groaning heap of twisted metal, scattered napkins, and broken wood. His expensive tailored suit was completely ruined, and blood was already pouring from his mouth onto his crisp white dress shirt. He lay utterly incapacitated, his reign of arrogance over before it even began.
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There was no dialogue. The overwhelming, brutal reality of the violence silenced every single person in the room. The wealthy American guests pressed themselves flat against the walls, their faces ghostly pale, terrified to even breathe.
Lorenzo stood in the center of the wreckage, his chest rising and falling with slow, perfectly controlled breaths. He slowly lowered his fist, flexing his fingers to ensure the gold ring sat comfortably. He smoothed the front of his dark three-piece suit, his cold, intimidating eyes utterly devoid of human empathy. He had physically dismantled a high-ranking capo in front of the entire syndicate, and he wasn't finished yet.
