Chapter 4 - Blood, Pride, and the Velvet Set
Marco’s panic overwhelmed the last vestige of his rational mind. In the hierarchy of the Romano syndicate, stepping into the physical perimeter of the Capo with aggressive intent was a capital offense. To charge Domenico Romano was suicide.
Yet Marco charged.
Driven by a terror far greater than his fear of Domenico’s wrath, Marco lunged across the four yards of open marble. His left boot kicked through the debris, sending sharp porcelain shards spinning across the floor, while his right arm cocked backward, his hand clenching into a wild, sloppy fist aimed directly at Domenico’s jaw.
It was an attack born of desperation—unbalanced, telegraphic, and devoid of discipline.
Domenico did not blink.
He did not shift his stance, nor did he allow his body to move away from where Sofia was clinging to his leg. With the clinical, effortless economy of a man who had survived a dozen back-alley ambushes and knife fights in Naples, Domenico tilted his chin three inches to the left.
Marco’s fist cut through empty air, the knuckle brushing past Domenico’s ear with a harmless rush of wind.
The momentum pulled Marco forward, overextending his center of gravity, his chest completely exposed.
Domenico countered.
He did not draw a weapon. He did not throw a wild punch. With mechanical, terrifying precision, Domenico rotated his hips by two inches and drove a short, sharp, controlled palm strike directly into the center of Marco’s sternum.
THWACK.
The sound was dull, dense, and concussive. The impact drove the air entirely out of Marco’s lungs with a wet, gagging gasp. The kinetic force of Domenico’s heavy, muscular frame transferred cleanly through the heel of his hand, lifting the thirty-eight-year-old cousin completely off his feet for a split second.
Marco flew backward through the air.
He crashed violently into the tufted burgundy velvet sofa, his back slamming into the cushions, his legs tangling in the heavy fabric. The heavy wooden frame of the couch skidded two feet across the floorboards with a loud, groaning screech of polished wood against stone. Marco slumped onto his side, coughing violently, clutching his crushed ribs with both hands, gasping for breath through a mouthful of saliva.
"Marco!" Camilla shrieked.
Seeing her husband incapacitated on the sofa, Camilla abandoned all decorum. The high-society poise, the cream evening gown, the diamond earrings—everything was cast aside in a primal, animalistic scramble.
May you like
Camilla dropped to her knees on the hard Carrera marble.
Ignoring the jagged, razor-sharp porcelain shards that sliced through the silk hem of her gown and bit into her bare knees, Camilla dove forward across the floor, her hands clawing desperately through the debris toward the yellowed envelope.
