Chapter 6
Grant’s fist hurdled toward Rocco’s face with bone-crushing intent. The bright, cinematic lighting of the suite caught the flash of Grant’s luxury wristwatch as his arm swung through the air.
Rocco’s reflexes, honed by decades of brutal underworld survival, had not been paralyzed. He moved with explosive, terrifying speed.
Before the punch could connect, Rocco’s left hand shot up from the armrest. He caught Grant’s incoming forearm with a grip like a titanium vise. The sheer, overwhelming masculine strength of the block sent a shockwave up Grant’s arm, completely halting the momentum of the strike.
Grant’s eyes widened in sheer panic, his fair skin instantly draining of color.
Without a fraction of a second's hesitation, Rocco used Grant’s own forward momentum against him. He violently pulled Grant’s trapped arm downward and to the side, throwing the forty-three-year-old man completely off balance. As Grant stumbled awkwardly forward, entirely exposing the left side of his face, Rocco chambered his right fist.
Rocco drove one explosive, devastating seated counterpunch straight across Grant’s jaw.
The sickening crunch of shattering bone echoed like a gunshot through the silent, music-less suite.
The kinetic force generated by Rocco’s massive upper body was apocalyptic. The impact lifted Grant completely off his feet. He spun violently backward, entirely airborne, hurtling across the pristine Persian rug.
Grant flew directly into the towering, freestanding book display positioned near the corner of the room.
The collision was catastrophic. The lightweight wooden frame of the display folded backward and collapsed instantly under Grant’s heavy weight. Dozens of heavy, leather-bound books scattered wildly across the carpet like shrapnel. Neatly folded blankets spilled out from a lower shelf, burying the area in fabric. Grant crashed brutally through the center supports of the shelving unit, bringing the entire structure down on top of him.
He landed in a crumpled, groaning heap among the ruined wood and scattered literature, completely incapacitated. Blood poured freely from his shattered nose onto the collar of his expensive tailored suit.
No dialogue was spoken during the horrific display of violence. The absolute silence that followed was heavier and more oppressive than before.
Lucia stood frozen in the doorway, her mouth hanging open in sheer, unadulterated terror. Edwin Cole, the senior estate steward, stared at his Boss with a mixture of profound awe and deep fear. June remained completely still, her hands hovering near her chest, processing the terrifying speed and power of the man she had just saved from suffocation.
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Rocco sat perfectly still in his wheelchair. He did not rub his knuckles. He did not adjust the cuffs of his tailored dark shirt. His chest rose and fell in slow, controlled, deeply menacing rhythms. The few loose strands of wavy hair falling over his forehead gave him the look of a dark, romantic warlord who had just effortlessly executed a traitor without even leaving his throne.
He slowly turned his cold, piercing eyes toward his cousin, Lucia. The message was explicitly clear. The physical retaliation was only the beginning; the intellectual dismantling of their conspiracy was about to commence.
