Chapter 7
Marciano delivered one thunderous, open-handed slap directly across Dorothea’s face.
The sound cracked through the cavernous salon, echoing with the finality of a judge's gavel. The immense kinetic force behind the strike was staggering. Dorothea was lifted entirely off her expensive heels. Her heavy pearl necklace snapped under the violent torque, sending dozens of white pearls scattering like hail across the hardwood floor.
She spun violently backward, completely out of control, her luxurious formal gown whipping around her legs.
Dorothea crashed brutally into the massive, freestanding archival display positioned near the back wall.
The tall, heavy metal and glass structure buckled instantly under the massive impact. The destruction was a chaotic cascade of high-end publishing materials. Lightweight, acid-free document boxes tumbled from every level, raining down like heavy bricks. Empty, elegant cloth slipcases burst open as they hit the floor. Hundreds of translucent tissue sheets exploded through the air, fluttering down like a bizarre, localized fog. Vibrant, beautifully printed book jackets scattered wildly across the floorboards.
Thick cardboard dividers collapsed entirely as the structural frame of the archival display tilted violently forward and finally gave way.
Dorothea dropped heavily beneath the tilted frame, buried under a mountain of document boxes, ruined slipcases, and scattered tissue paper. She hit the floor groaning in agony, completely incapacitated, a bright red handprint already swelling across her fair, rosy cheek.
There was no dialogue. The entire salon remained absolutely, horrifyingly silent.
The white American guests, the editors of the publishing house, and the visiting capos stood perfectly still, entirely unwilling to draw the Don's lethal attention. The bright cinematic lighting highlighted the absolute destruction that had been visited upon the Pierce family in less than thirty seconds.
Marciano stood in the center of the wreckage. He adjusted the cuffs of his crisp white dress shirt, his dark three-piece suit completely unwrinkled. The brutal violence had been executed with the flawless, terrifying precision of a surgeon excising a tumor.
He turned his back on the groaning woman in the debris. He knelt down gracefully on the polished floor, bringing himself to eye level with his weeping sister and his terrified nephew.
“Are you hurt, Luca?” Marciano asked, his raspy voice dropping into a register of profound, unexpected gentleness. He reached out, his large hand gently wiping a tear from the boy’s rosy cheek.
“No, Uncle Marciano,” Luca sniffled, burying his face into his mother’s shoulder.
“Take him to my private office, Elisa,” Marciano instructed softly, looking at his sister. “Lock the door. Do not come out until I tell you it is safe.”
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Elisa nodded weakly, tears streaming down her face as she scooped her son into her arms. She hurried across the room, the heavy oak doors closing firmly behind her.
With his bloodline securely removed from the battlefield, Marciano slowly stood up to his full height. The tender, protective uncle vanished. The monster returned.
