Chapter 5
Harlan’s punch was fueled by pure, unadulterated panic, but it was entirely clumsy. He swung with the heavy, uncoordinated motion of a man who relied on his title rather than his fists.
Marciano did not even blink. Moving with an explosive, terrifying speed that completely defied his forty-nine years, the veteran Mafia boss simply tilted his head. He slipped the punch effortlessly. Harlan’s fist sailed through the empty air, the momentum throwing his entire center of gravity wildly forward and leaving his face completely unguarded.
Before Harlan could even register his miss, Marciano planted his lead foot, twisted his hips, and drove one devastating, explosive counterpunch directly across Harlan’s jaw.
The sickening crunch of shattering bone echoed through the silent salon like a gunshot.
The sheer kinetic force of the blow was staggering. Harlan was lifted entirely off his polished leather shoes. The breath was violently expelled from his lungs in a spray of blood. His eyes rolled back into his head instantly, his brain completely short-circuiting from the massive impact.
Harlan spun violently backward, flying completely out of control across the polished hardwood floor. He rocketed backward, arms flailing uselessly through the air.
He crashed directly into the massive, rolling bookbinding-supply cart.
The destruction was absolute and catastrophic. The heavy wooden cart buckled under the immense weight of his flying body. The wheels shrieked against the floorboards as the cart was violently propelled backward by the collision.
Blank, leather-bound journals burst from their meticulous stacks, rocketing into the air like heavy projectiles. Dozens of thick, brightly colored bookcloth rolls unraveled wildly across the floor, snapping and tangling in a chaotic web of fabric. Spools of silk ribbon bookmarks whipped through the air, trailing behind the wreckage. Heavy bundles of pristine archival paper exploded apart, filling the bright cinematic air with a sudden, localized snowstorm of white pages.
Harlan crashed heavily through the collapsing lower shelves of the cart. Thick, solid wooden pressing blocks scattered like toys as the structural integrity of the cart failed entirely.
He hit the floor amidst the mountain of ruined paper, splintered wood, and unspooled ribbons. He landed with a heavy, wet thud and did not move a single muscle, his expensive tailored suit completely buried in the wreckage.
May you like
There was no dialogue. The entire salon descended into a heavy, ringing silence. The polite murmurs, the soft background music—it was all completely severed.
Marciano stood perfectly still in the center of the room. He slowly lowered his fist, rolling his broad shoulders beneath his dark vest. His breathing was completely controlled, even, and calm, as if he had merely swatted a fly. He did not even look at the broken man bleeding on the floor.
