Sofia Ravelli reached desperately from her hospital bed as her father-in-law Victor Mercer lifted one of her newborn triplets from its clear bassinet to hand the crying infant to his daughter Bianca

The hospital room was completely silent for a fraction of a second. The bright sunlight illuminated the sweat beading on Julian’s forehead. Driven by wounded pride and blind stupidity, Julian planted his polished leather shoe and swung his right fist with all his might, aiming directly for Lorenzo’s jaw.

Lorenzo did not even flinch.

With the practiced, effortless grace of a man who had survived thirty years in the underworld, Lorenzo merely tilted his head and slipped the punch. Julian’s fist sailed harmlessly through the empty air, throwing the younger man’s center of gravity entirely off balance.

Before Julian could recover, Lorenzo pivoted on his heel and drove one explosive, devastating counterpunch directly across Julian’s face.

The sickening crack of bone echoed through the maternity suite. The sheer kinetic force of the blow lifted Julian off his feet. He spun backward, his arms flailing wildly, his fair skin instantly bruising purple across his cheekbone.

Julian crashed violently into the rolling refreshment station positioned in the center of the visitor lounge.

The heavy wooden cart rocketed backward on its wheels, slamming brutally into the freestanding magazine-and-blanket rack. The impact was deafening. Sealed plastic water bottles launched into the air, bouncing and skidding across the polished floor. Stacks of white paper cups scattered like snowflakes through the brightly lit lounge. Folded, pastel-colored visitor blankets burst from their shelves, raining down in a chaotic tangle of fabric.

Julian crashed backward through the collapsing lightweight metal frame of the rack. The structure folded beneath his weight, pinning him to the floor amid the scattered magazines, spilled cups, and rolling bottles.

He lay there, groaning in agony, blood pouring from his shattered nose and staining the collar of his expensive tailored suit.

Lorenzo stood perfectly still, his breathing completely even. He slowly lowered his fist, adjusting the cuff of his unbuttoned dress shirt. He did not look at the ruined man on the floor. His cold, measured gaze had already shifted.

“Julian!” Bianca screamed, her voice piercing the silence. She took a step toward her brother but froze the moment Lorenzo’s sharp eyes locked onto her. She pressed her back against the wall, her rosy skin draining to a sickly, pale white.

“Let this be a lesson to you, Julian,” Lorenzo said softly, speaking to the bleeding man on the floor without bothering to turn his head. “When you strike at a king, you do not use your hands. You use your head. A head you clearly do not possess.”

Victor Mercer, watching his son bleeding on the floor, felt a sudden, frantic surge of desperate panic. The plan was falling apart, and the consequences of crossing the Ravelli family were materializing right in front of him.