Chapter 5
The deafening crash of Ethan Cole destroying the storage area faded into a heavy, ringing silence. Dust motes danced in the bright fluorescent light above the twisted wreckage of the canopy frames. Ethan did not move, his expensive tuxedo now buried beneath torn garment bags and heavy aluminum poles.
Gavin stared at the broken body of his mistress's brother, sheer panic finally overriding whatever shred of arrogance he had left. He realized with terrifying clarity that his wife was not going to negotiate. She was going to exterminate them.
Desperation makes cowards do incredibly stupid things.
Gavin’s frantic eyes darted around the concrete floor, looking for any kind of leverage. His gaze landed on the large, hastily packed trunk sitting near the concrete pillar—the trunk containing Tobin’s clothes, toys, and drawings.
"Vanessa, we have to go!" Gavin shouted, his voice cracking with hysteria.
He lunged forward, his polished leather shoes squeaking loudly against the floor. He grabbed the heavy leather handle of Tobin’s packed trunk and tried to violently drag it toward Vanessa and the exit, perhaps thinking he could use his son's belongings to bargain his way out of the garage.
He didn't even make it two steps.
Alessandra closed the distance between them with the speed of a striking viper. She stepped directly into his path, her eyes blazing with an unholy, terrifying fire.
She reached out and clamped her hand over Gavin’s wrist like a steel vice. With a sharp, brutal twist, Alessandra tore his hand entirely away from her son’s trunk. Gavin cried out in pain as his wrist popped loudly.
Before he could pull back, Alessandra raised her right hand and drove one thunderous, open-handed strike directly across Gavin’s face.
It wasn't a slap. It was a devastating, palm-heel strike designed to break. The impact sounded like a wooden bat hitting a wet slab of meat.
Gavin’s head snapped violently to the side. The force of the blow was absolute, knocking his brain against the inside of his skull. He spun sideways, completely losing his footing, his arms wheeling frantically in the air as he was launched across the polished concrete.
He crashed violently into the heavy, padded court-divider rack standing near the wall.
The massive steel rack folded violently against the concrete wall under his flying weight. Heavy foam training cones that had been stacked nearby scattered in every direction, bouncing wildly beneath his flailing shoes. Two heavy, reinforced equipment cases resting on top of the rack slid apart and crashed to the floor, bursting open upon impact.
Gavin crashed down hard among the wreckage. As he fell, his foot caught the edge of Tobin’s trunk. The latch gave way, and the trunk burst open.
Tobin’s tiny clothes, his colorful crayon drawings, and his small picture books spilled out in a chaotic cascade, burying Gavin in the innocent belongings of the child he had just spent nine hours torturing.
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Gavin lay on his back, gasping for air, staring up at the bright fluorescent lights. His jaw was visibly dislocated, and blood trickled from the corner of his mouth, staining the crisp white collar of his tuxedo shirt.
There was no dialogue. The syndicate boss stood perfectly still amidst the scattered foam cones and spilled drawings, looking down at the broken, bleeding man she had once called her husband.
