Chapter 8
The bright, cinematic lighting of the ballroom felt suddenly glaring as the dust settled over the shattered porcelain. The fifty guests remained rooted to the marble floor, their eyes darting between the bruised socialite rising from the debris and the mafia boss standing intimately close to his housemaid.
"You are going to regret this, Florian," Octavia hissed, spitting blood onto the clean white tiles. Her Black American bodyguard held her firmly by the arm, keeping her steady on her high heels. "My family will burn this city to the ground. We will kill every man loyal to you, and I will personally skin that little bitch alive."
Florian’s hand remained firmly over Corisande’s, keeping her anchored to his chest. He slowly turned his head, his angular face setting into a mask of pure, unadulterated menace.
"Do you believe you are in a position to issue threats, Octavia?" Florian asked, his deep voice carrying effortlessly across the silent room.
"I am a Wetherell!" Octavia screamed, pointing a shaking finger at him. "You just assaulted an heir to the syndicate! My men will be here within the hour!"
"Your men are currently bleeding on the floor of my private residential wing," Florian corrected her, his tone devoid of any emotion. "And you did not suffer an assault. You suffered the consequences of attempting to strike a made man with a weapon."
Florian released Corisande’s hand gently, though he kept his body positioned protectively in front of her. He took a slow, deliberate step toward the wreckage of the dessert table.
"Marcus," Florian called out, his voice a low rumble.
A tall, broad-shouldered capo stepped out from the crowd of guests, his hand resting on the grip of a concealed pistol beneath his suit jacket. "Yes, Boss."
"Disarm her guards," Florian ordered casually. "If they resist, shoot them where they stand."
The two bodyguards flanking Octavia immediately raised their hands, palms outward, stepping away from the furious woman. They were surrounded by fifty of Florian’s loyalists; drawing a weapon in this room was a guaranteed death sentence. Marcus and another capo quickly moved in, stripping the men of their firearms and earpieces.
"You are making a catastrophic mistake," Octavia sneered, though her voice wavered as she realized she was completely defenseless.
"The only mistake I made was allowing you into my home," Florian replied coldly. He looked down at the broken crystal and smashed cake at her feet. "You threatened my son. In our world, Octavia, that is an act of war. A war you have already lost."
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"My father will not let this stand!" she cried.
"I am counting on it," Florian said, a dark, terrifying smile touching the corners of his mouth. "Tell your father I look forward to his response."
