Chapter 4
Roland Carter stood perfectly still for three agonizing seconds. He looked down at Megan and Olivia, observing the foul-smelling broth soaking into their hair and beautiful dresses. He saw the sheer terror in their wide, tear-filled eyes. Then, he looked at his daughter, noting the red, blooming bruises in the shape of Michael’s fingers on her fair, delicate arm.
The veteran Mafia boss did not raise his voice. He did not yell or curse. The calculating businessman vanished, replaced entirely by a father and grandfather whose bloodline had just been desecrated.
Roland stepped past Emily, moving with a sudden, terrifying speed that defied his sixty years.
He marched directly toward Jessica Hayes. The sixty-three-year-old woman’s eyes widened in absolute horror. She opened her mouth to speak, to offer some haughty defense of her actions, but the words died in her throat.
Without a single word, Roland reached out with both hands and grabbed the edges of the heavy, silver shrimp platter that Jessica was still holding. He ripped it from her grasp with such immense, brutal force that the older woman was spun halfway around, her expensive heels skidding on the marble.
Michael, realizing the catastrophic danger his mother was in, finally snapped out of his paralysis. "Roland, wait! It’s a misunderstanding!" he yelled, stepping forward with his hands raised defensively.
Roland pivoted on his polished leather shoes. Using the momentum of his turn, he hoisted the massive silver platter into the air.
With all the explosive, unhinged fury of a man going to war, Roland forcefully hurled the heavy metal tray directly into Michael’s upper body.
The impact was devastating. The heavy silver platter slammed squarely into Michael’s chest and collarbone with a sickening, metallic crunch. The sheer kinetic energy of the blow lifted the thirty-eight-year-old man completely off his feet.
Michael staggered violently backward, gasping for air as his ribs bruised instantly under his tailored suit. He lost his footing entirely, crashing backward into his mother.
Jessica screamed as her son’s weight collided with her. They both plummeted backward, crashing violently into a row of heavy banquet chairs. The wooden chairs splintered and collapsed under their combined weight. A nearby table tipped over, sending hundreds of cocktail shrimp, cocktail sauce, shattered crystal glasses, and spilled champagne raining down over them.
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The ballroom erupted into absolute, chaotic panic. Women shrieked, scrambling backward in their gowns. Men shouted, instinctively reaching inside their jackets for weapons that they suddenly realized were useless in the face of Roland Carter’s wrath.
But there was no dialogue. Not a single word was spoken between the two families in that moment. The only sound was the crashing of furniture, the shattering of glass, and the heavy, ragged breathing of Roland Carter standing over the wreckage of his son-in-law.
