Chapter 6
The catastrophic destruction of the kinetic-orbit display left the museum hall in a state of breathless shock. The bright, cinematic lighting illuminated the carnage perfectly—the scattered foam planets, the bent metal framing, and the unconscious, bleeding form of Adrian Moretti lying in the wreckage.
Celeste Vaughn stood frozen, her eyes wide with unadulterated terror as she stared at the broken man she had conspired with. The arrogant, elegant facade she had worn all evening shattered completely. Her fair, rosy skin turned the color of ash.
But instead of falling to her knees and begging for mercy, Celeste’s panic mutated into a desperate, hysterical, and entirely irrational fury. The realization that her life of luxury and power was permanently over pushed her into a blind frenzy. She looked past Rocco, spotting four-year-old Mia standing safely behind him, peering through her spare glasses.
"You ruined everything, you little freak!" Celeste shrieked, her American accent pitching into a shrill, manic octave.
Celeste grabs Mia’s wrist, lunging forward with a sudden burst of speed. Her formal gown swished violently around her legs as she bypassed logic, reaching aggressively for the spare glasses on the child's face, desperate to inflict some final measure of pain.
"Leave me alone!" Mia cried, trying to pull her small arm away.
Rocco tears Celeste’s hand away.
His massive, powerful fingers clamped around Celeste’s forearm like a steel vice, crushing her delicate wrist. He violently yanked her hand away from his daughter, halting her forward momentum instantly.
Celeste gasped in pain, her diamond bracelet rattling against her skin. "Rocco, you're hurting me!"
Rocco did not say a single word. His cold, piercing eyes were entirely devoid of human empathy. He pulled his left hand back and delivers one thunderous open-handed slap across her face.
The impact was brutally loud, a sharp, echoing crack that resonated off the high ceilings of the museum.
The immense physical force of the slap sent Celeste spinning violently backward. She lost her footing in her designer heels, her arms flailing helplessly as she was thrown backward across the room.
Celeste spins backward directly into the magnetic-tile demonstration wall.
The collision was massive. The heavy backing of the wall shuddered. Hundreds of lightweight, brightly colored magnetic tiles lost their grip upon impact and scattered wildly across the carpet in a chaotic rain of plastic. A heavy, padded exhibit bench positioned in front of the wall shifted violently sideways with a loud screech.
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Celeste collapses beside the fallen display. She hit the floor in a tangled heap of elegant silk, diamonds, and scattered magnetic tiles. She gasped for air, clutching her rapidly bruising cheek, entirely pinned beneath the psychological and physical weight of the Mafia boss's wrath.
Once again, no dialogue was spoken. The music of the gala was dead. The only sounds in the massive, brilliantly lit room were the soft, terrified whimpers of Celeste struggling to sit up, and the heavy, ragged breathing of the stunned guests. Rocco stood in the center of the destruction, a towering monument of absolute, lethal authority.
