Chapter 4
Marcus swung again, throwing his entire body weight into a massive, sweeping right hook aimed squarely at Damon’s face.
Damon moved with explosive, terrifying grace. He slipped smoothly beneath the incoming punch, the heavy fabric of his black overcoat shifting flawlessly. Marcus’s fist sailed harmlessly through the bright, crisp air, completely throwing his tailored torso off balance.
Using Marcus's forward momentum against him, Damon planted his polished leather shoes firmly on the cemetery path. He twisted his hips, engaging his deeply masculine core, and drove one explosive, devastating counterpunch straight across Marcus’s face.
The sickening crunch of shattering bone echoed loudly through the serene cemetery.
The sheer kinetic force of the blow lifted the thirty-eight-year-old man entirely off his feet. Marcus spun violently backward, utterly airborne, his arms flailing uselessly. He hurtled backward across the path in a blur of expensive dark fabric.
He crashed directly into a large groundskeeping trolley parked near the edge of the graves.
The collision was catastrophic. The heavy metal trolley rocketed across the stone path under his weight, its wheels screeching before it violently overturned.
Dozens of cheap plastic flowerpots scattered wildly over the pristine green grass. Heavy metal watering cans bounced loudly across the stone pathway, denting upon impact. Neatly folded gardening cloths burst from the trolley's shelves, fluttering through the air like morbid confetti. Heavy, empty soil bags tumbled through the bright, sunlit air as the entire structure collapsed.
Marcus crashed brutally through the collapsing lower frame of the trolley. He hit the ground in a tangled, groaning heap of metal and plastic, entirely incapacitated. Blood poured freely from his shattered nose onto his fair, rosy skin, ruining the crisp collar of his shirt.
The two Cross bodyguards standing further down the path remained perfectly still, their hands resting inside their suit jackets. Their Boss did not require assistance.
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No dialogue was spoken during the chaotic, brutal destruction of the senator's son. The silence that immediately followed was heavy and suffocating.
Damon slowly lowered his fist. He did not rub his knuckles or adjust his suit. His breathing remained slow, even, and terrifyingly controlled. He turned his cold, piercing eyes away from the broken man in the wreckage and locked them onto Vanessa Caldwell.
