Chapter 5
Mark’s hand was inches from grabbing the collar of Noah’s filthy shirt when the world seemingly exploded.
Richard didn't just move; he erupted. With terrifying, blinding speed that completely defied his sixty-one years, Richard knocked Mark’s outstretched arm away with his left forearm. In the exact same fluid, brutal motion, Richard planted his right foot, rotated his heavy hips, and drove an explosive, devastating right cross directly into Mark’s jaw.
The sickening CRACK of bone shattering echoed like a gunshot through the silent, cavernous hall.
Mark’s eyes rolled back in his head instantly. The sheer concussive force of the blow lifted the thirty-eight-year-old man completely off his feet. Mark spun violently backward through the air, completely out of control, flying directly toward the heavy, wooden wine trolley positioned near the center of the room.
"Jesus Christ!" one of the bodyguards yelled as the guests erupted into a chorus of terrified shrieks.
Mark crashed back-first into the trolley with devastating momentum. The impact splintered the thick mahogany wood like cheap firewood. The trolley rocketed backward on its brass wheels, completely unmoored, and slammed aggressively into the elaborate decorative sled display positioned behind it.
The resulting destruction was catastrophic. The towering arrangement of empty crystal champagne glasses, massive wrapped gift boxes, thick velvet ribbons, and heavy wooden winter decorations completely collapsed. Mark crashed through the center of the display, taking the entire structure down with him in a thunderous avalanche of shattered glass and splintered wood. Crystal shards rained down across the polished floorboards like jagged hail. Expensive bottles of wine burst, sending dark red liquid pooling across the floor, looking horrifyingly like blood under the golden chandelier light.
Mark lay in the center of the wreckage, groaning in sheer agony. His expensive cashmere sweater was torn and stained with wine. Blood poured freely from his nose and shattered jaw, dripping onto the pristine floor. He tried to push himself up on his elbows, coughing violently, but his arms gave out, sending him collapsing back into the broken glass.
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The entire room froze in absolute terror. The bodyguards standing by the main doors instinctively reached inside their jackets, gripping their holstered weapons, but they did not draw them. No one dared to move against Richard Bellacorte.
Richard stood firmly over his grandson, his knuckles red and bruised. He slowly lowered his right fist, adjusting the cuffs of his pristine dress shirt as if he had merely swatted a fly. He did not look at the screaming guests, nor did he look at his bleeding son in the wreckage. He simply stood there, a towering monument of violent, unyielding authority, breathing deeply as the heavy silence once again choked the room.
