Chapter 4
"Get away from her!" a masculine voice roared from the entrance of the service hall.
Gavin Price, Miranda’s forty-year-old brother and a trusted Mafia-family associate, charged blindly from the bright, crowded ballroom. He wore a sharp, formal suit, his luxury wristwatch catching the cinematic lighting as his arms pumped furiously. His fair, rosy skin was flushed a deep, violent crimson with adrenaline and panic. Realizing that the entire trafficking operation was completely compromised, Gavin decided his only chance of survival was to eliminate the Boss.
Gavin closed the distance rapidly, pulling his right arm back. He threw his entire body weight into a massive, desperate punch aimed squarely at the back of Bennett’s head.
Bennett’s reflexes were forged in the brutal, unforgiving violence of the underworld. He heard the squeak of Gavin’s polished leather shoes against the hardwood. Without fully turning around, Bennett smoothly shifted his weight, pivoting on his heels. He slipped flawlessly past the heavy strike, allowing Gavin’s fist to sail through empty air.
Using Gavin’s forward momentum against him, Bennett planted his feet. He torqued his broad shoulders and drove one explosive, devastating counterpunch straight across Gavin’s face.
The sickening crunch of bone echoed off the walls. The sheer kinetic force of the blow lifted Gavin entirely off his feet. He spun violently backward, completely airborne, hurtling across the width of the service corridor.
Gavin crashed directly into the freestanding display of miniature sailboats positioned near the wall.
The collision was catastrophic. The lightweight wooden stands folded sideways upon impact with a loud, destructive crash. Dozens of meticulously crafted miniature sailboats fell from their supports, their delicate canvas sails and wooden masts snapping into pieces. The entire structure collapsed outward, raining debris across the polished hardwood floor.
Gavin crashed heavily among the scattered models, landing on his back in a ruin of splintered wood and torn canvas. He lay there entirely motionless, completely knocked unconscious by the single, flawless strike. Blood poured freely from his shattered nose, pooling on the floor beside his polished leather shoes.
The service hall fell into absolute silence.
No dialogue was spoken. The music from the lakeside ballroom continued to drift through the doors, a cheerful, upbeat jazz tune that stood in horrific contrast to the brutal violence that had just dismantled Gavin Price.
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Bennett lowered his tattooed hand. His breathing was slow, deep, and measured. The loose strands of wavy hair falling over his forehead were now soaked with wine, but his cold, sharp eyes remained fixed on the unconscious man for only a fraction of a second. He turned his attention back to his wife.
Miranda stared at her brother’s broken body, her chest heaving with sheer, unadulterated terror. The realization that Bennett had neutralized a grown, armed man in less than two seconds without even raising his heart rate shattered her final delusion of control. She backed away, her expensive evening gown swishing against the floor, desperately searching the hall for an escape route.
