Chapter 8
The bodyguard reached into Julian’s tailored suit pocket, ignoring his weak protests, and extracted a sleek, expensive smartphone. He handed it directly to Lorenzo.
Lorenzo held the device in his tattooed hand, tapping the screen to unlock it. He didn't dial any numbers yet. Instead, he looked at Nurse Claire, who was still standing protectively over the clear bassinets, her gloved hands resting on the plastic edges.
“Nurse,” Lorenzo said, his voice polite but commanding. “You have shown remarkable courage today. I will ensure your hospital receives a generous anonymous donation. But right now, I need you to move my daughter and my grandchildren to the private secure wing on the top floor.”
“Yes, sir,” Nurse Claire said immediately, her professional demeanor unshaken by the violence she had just witnessed. “I will call for transport beds immediately.”
“Take my men with you,” Lorenzo added, nodding to the two bodyguards. “They will stand outside her door. No one enters without my express permission. Not doctors, not administrators. No one.”
“Dad, what are you going to do to him?” Sofia asked, her voice steady. She sat up slightly, ignoring the pain, and locked her bright blue eyes onto Julian’s bleeding face.
Lorenzo looked at his daughter, noting the fierce, protective fire burning behind her exhaustion. She was a Ravelli through and through.
“I am going to finalize your divorce, Sofia,” Lorenzo said softly. “And then I am going to have a conversation with the men waiting in the garage.”
Sofia nodded slowly. She didn't offer Julian a single glance of pity. “Make it hurt, Dad.”
Julian’s eyes widened in fresh horror. “Sofia! Sofia, please! I’m your husband! I’m the father of your children!”
“You are nothing,” Sofia replied, turning her face away from him and looking only at her beautiful, sleeping babies.
The bodyguards moved quickly. They unlocked the wheels of the hospital bed and the bassinets, forming a tight, protective phalanx around the mother and her children. They rolled them out the side door, leaving Lorenzo alone in the ruined visitor lounge with the three members of the Mercer family.
The bright hospital colors—the pastel walls, the golden sunlight, the cheerful floral arrangements—felt entirely mocking now. The room was a cage, and Lorenzo was the apex predator.
Lorenzo walked over to the collapsed luggage stands where Victor was still cowering. He looked down at the sixty-five-year-old man in his formal suit.
“Stand up, Victor,” Lorenzo commanded, his volume barely a whisper.
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Victor scrambled to his feet, his polished leather shoes slipping on a scattered magazine. He held his hands up in a placating gesture, his luxury wristwatch gleaming in the light. “Lorenzo, we can fix this. I have money. I can pay Moretti myself. We don't have to go to war over this.”
“You are already at war, Victor,” Lorenzo said, his face an unreadable mask. “You just didn't realize it until you lost.”
