Chapter 3
Cullen did not speak. The slow, measured control he possessed was far more terrifying than a shout. He stood up completely, his towering frame casting a long shadow over the scattered citrus leaves.
Before Cullen could take a step toward Tove, a shadow moved from the periphery. Chase Mercer, Tove’s forty-two-year-old brother and an arrogant Mafia associate, stepped directly between the Boss and his sister. Chase wore an expensive, tailored suit, his polished leather shoes squeaking against the tile. His fair, rosy face was set in a scowl, completely misreading the lethal danger radiating from Cullen.
"Back off, Cullen," Chase demanded, aggressively shoving Cullen hard in the chest with both hands.
Cullen barely moved. His polished shoes remained planted on the tile. He slowly looked down at his chest where Chase had touched him, then looked down at his own heavily tattooed hands. The negative space in the ink seemed to flex as he clenched his jaw.
"You're making a scene over nothing," Chase sneered, completely dismissive of the near-tragedy. He adjusted his luxury wristwatch, his American accent dripping with condescension. "Tove is going to be her mother. She’s only good at pretending. The kid needs to learn that her little panic attacks won't manipulate the adults in the room."
"Chase, shut up," Margaret hissed from the wicker chair, her voice shaking with fear for the man. "You don't know what you're doing."
"I know exactly what I'm doing, Margaret," Chase snapped back, turning his attention to the elderly woman. "We are merging families. We aren't running a daycare for weak children."
Cullen finally raised his eyes. They were dead, devoid of all human warmth. He spoke with controlled pauses between his words, his volume incredibly low.
"You put your hands on me," Cullen whispered, his raspy voice sending a chill through the bright, sunlit room.
Chase puffed out his chest, mistaking Cullen’s low volume for submission. "Yeah, I did. Someone needs to remind you that the Mercer family is an equal partner in this syndicate. We don't bow to you."
Chase wound up his right arm, deciding to solidify his dominance with violence. He threw a heavy, sweeping punch aimed directly at Cullen’s jaw.
It was a fatal miscalculation.
Cullen slipped the strike with terrifying, effortless grace. He merely tilted his head, letting Chase’s fist sail through empty air. In the exact same fluid motion, Cullen pivoted his hips and drove one explosive, devastating counterpunch directly across Chase’s face.
The sickening crack of cartilage echoed off the glass ceiling. The kinetic force behind Cullen’s strike was absolute. Chase’s eyes rolled back instantly. He spun violently backward, completely lifted off his polished leather shoes.
He flew through the air and crashed directly into the massive tiered ceramic planter stand.
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Heavy ceramic pots tumbled and shattered violently against the tiles. Thick citrus branches shook, snapping under his weight. Dark potting soil burst across the pristine floor like an explosion. Chase crashed heavily beneath the collapsed wooden tiers, buried in broken pottery and dirt. He did not move.
There was no dialogue. The conservatory was deadly silent.
