Chapter 6
The ringing silence in the portrait hall was absolute, save for the wet, rattling gasps coming from Gavin beneath the collapsed photo backdrop. The bright, natural light illuminated the total devastation of the studio equipment, casting sharp, unforgiving reflections off the shattered portrait glass.
Lorraine Valenti stared at the broken body of her favored nephew, her fair face contorted in a mask of sheer, unadulterated terror. The sixty-six-year-old former matriarch realized, with a sickening drop in her stomach, that the polite rules of aristocratic society did not apply when her son’s bloodline was threatened.
However, panic often breeds catastrophic irrationality. Seeing her nephew neutralized, Lorraine’s eyes darted wildly, landing once again on the terrified photographer holding the digital evidence.
"Give it to me!" Lorraine shrieked, her voice cracking with hysterical desperation.
She lunged forward, her expensive formal gown sweeping across the marble floor. She grabbed Adrian’s heavy leather camera strap with both hands, digging her pearl-ringed fingers into the fabric, and tried to violently tear the camera away from his neck.
"Ma'am, please let go!" Adrian yelled, stumbling backward and clutching the camera body, struggling to keep his balance against the crazed woman.
Roman moved with terrifying, fluid speed.
He closed the distance in two massive strides, his polished leather shoes crunching over the broken glass. He reached out with his left hand, the sharp, artistic tattoos on his fingers flexing, and caught Lorraine’s wrist in an iron grip.
"Get your hands... off him," Roman murmured, his voice a low, lethal vibration.
With a brutal, effortless wrench, Roman pulled her hand completely free from the camera strap, nearly lifting the older woman off her expensive heels. Lorraine gasped in pain, her eyes wide with shock as she stared up into the cold, empty eyes of her son.
"Roman, how dare you!" Lorraine spat, attempting to slap him with her free hand.
Roman did not let her complete the motion. He released her wrist and immediately delivered one thunderous, devastating open-handed slap directly across her face.
The impact was brutally loud, a sharp, echoing crack that resonated off the pristine white walls. The sheer, masculine force behind the blow snapped Lorraine’s head violently to the side. The older woman lost her footing entirely, spinning sideways like a broken doll.
She hurtled backward, crashing catastrophically into the rolling camera cart positioned near the staging area.
The heavy cart shot backward upon impact, its wheels skidding aggressively across the floor. It slammed violently into the stacked portrait frames stacked against the wall. The sound of tearing wood and shattering glass filled the air. Empty frames tumbled chaotically across the carpet. Thick, heavy photo albums burst from the cart’s lower shelf, their pages ripping as they hit the ground. Tiny, plastic memory-card cases scattered like hail beneath the table.
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Lorraine dropped heavily beside the overturned cart. She collapsed into the scattered photo albums, gasping for air, her hand clutching her stinging, rapidly swelling face. The elegant, untouchable matriarch had been reduced to a groveling, terrified heap amidst the ruined memories of the family.
There was no dialogue. The absolute, undeniable physical dominance of Roman Valenti had utterly dismantled the traitors in his own house.
