Chapter 5
The aftermath of the violent crash left the visitor lounge in absolute ruins. The bright, cinematic lighting illuminated every detail of the destruction—the crushed water bottles, the scattered paper cups, and Julian’s motionless body tangled in the folded visitor blankets. The stark contrast between the elegant, pristine environment and the brutal violence was jarring.
Victor Mercer stared at his unconscious son, his fair, rosy face draining of all color. The sixty-five-year-old patriarch realized, with sudden, terrifying clarity, that their wealth and political connections meant absolutely nothing in this room. Lorenzo Ravelli operated under a different set of laws.
However, panic often breeds catastrophic irrationality. Seeing his son neutralized, Victor’s eyes darted wildly around the room, landing once again on the clear bassinets guarded by Nurse Claire. In a desperate, completely unhinged attempt to salvage his family's deranged plan, Victor lunged forward, his polished leather shoes slipping slightly on the spilled water. He reached his hands out, trying to push past the bodyguards to grab the nearest newborn.
Lorenzo intercepted him with terrifying speed.
He stepped directly into Victor’s path, his large hands reaching out to grab the older man by the lapels of his formal suit. Lorenzo tore Victor away from the bassinets with such immense force that the fabric of the suit jacket audibly ripped.
Before Victor could raise his hands to defend himself, Lorenzo delivered one thunderous, open-handed slap across his fair, aging face.
The impact was brutally loud, a sharp, echoing crack that resonated off the sterile walls. The sheer, masculine power behind the blow snapped Victor’s head violently to the side. The older man spun backward, completely losing his footing.
Victor crashed onto the padded sleeper chair in the corner of the lounge. His weight and momentum caused the heavy chair to slide aggressively backward, colliding forcefully into two folded lightweight luggage stands. Both metal stands collapsed instantly under the pressure. Visitor bags and duffels toppled sideways, spilling their contents onto the floor. Victor dropped heavily among the scattered luggage and fallen blankets, groaning in agony as he clutched his stinging, rapidly swelling face.
There was no dialogue. The sheer, physical dominance of Lorenzo Ravelli had utterly dismantled the Mercer family in less than sixty seconds.
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Bianca Mercer, standing near the doorway, completely froze. Her elegant dress and expensive jewelry suddenly felt like a target painted on her back. She stared at Lorenzo, her eyes wide with unadulterated terror. Her hands trembled so violently she could barely keep them at her sides. She watched her father writhing in the luggage and her brother lying unconscious in the water, realizing that she was the only one left standing.
Lorenzo slowly turned his head to look at her. His thick, neatly styled hair had not moved a single inch during the confrontation. His angular face, framed by the short, well-groomed beard, remained a mask of cold, beautiful, terrifying composure. He simply stared at her, letting the profound, suffocating silence of the room crush whatever remaining defiance she held.
