Chapter 3
Rage, hot and blinding, surged through Malcolm’s veins, but he forced it down into a tight, controlled core. His son's life was the priority. Malcolm quickly scanned his immediate surroundings. Resting on a nearby wooden tool table, left behind by one of the estate gardeners, was a heavy pair of steel garden cutters.
Without breaking eye contact with Evelyn, Malcolm reached out and grabbed the heavy tool. The steel handles felt cold and substantial in his massive hands. He turned back to Caleb, carefully slipping the sharp jaws of the cutters around the small chain lock securing his son's ankle.
"Cover your ears, Caleb," Malcolm instructed softly.
He squeezed the handles together with terrifying, brute strength. The muscles in his broad shoulders and thick forearms bulged beneath his tailored dark suit. With a sharp, metallic crack that echoed over the lawn, the thick steel lock shattered.
Malcolm immediately threw the heavy garden cutter aside and reached down, lifting Caleb completely away from the column. He cradled the small, trembling boy against his broad chest, his large hand gently rubbing Caleb's back, trying to soothe the erratic, frantic beating of the child's fragile heart. Caleb buried his face into Malcolm's neck, his small hands gripping the fabric of the dark three-piece suit as if his life depended on it.
Before Malcolm could turn to leave the scorching sun, Vincent Ashford stepped forward, blocking his path.
Vincent, Evelyn’s forty-year-old son and a high-ranking Mafia capo, carried himself with the bloated, unearned confidence of a man who believed his bloodline made him invincible. He was a White American man with fair, rosy skin, dressed impeccably in an expensive summer suit. A shiny capo pin rested on his lapel, catching the sunlight, alongside an expensive wristwatch and designer loafers.
Vincent sneered, looking down at Malcolm and Caleb with pure, unadulterated contempt. He reached out and aggressively grabbed Malcolm’s broad shoulder, his fingers digging into the expensive fabric of the suit.
"Where do you think you're taking him?" Vincent demanded, his voice loud enough to draw the attention of the nearby guests and bodyguards. The party music seemed to fade as people turned to watch the confrontation.
"Remove your hand from me, Vincent," Malcolm warned, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that vibrated deep in his chest. "I am taking my son inside."
Vincent didn't let go. Instead, his arrogant smirk widened. He looked at Caleb's torn, filthy clothes, then back at Malcolm, his eyes dancing with malicious cruelty.
"My mother put him there for a reason, Malcolm," Vincent stated loudly, puffing out his chest to project his authority to the surrounding capos. "The boy lacks discipline. He needs to learn his place in this family hierarchy."
Vincent tightened his grip on Malcolm's shoulder, leaning in closer. "Animals should be kept chained up," Vincent sneered arrogantly, the racial undertone of his insult clear and deliberate. "It’s the only way they learn how to behave."
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The silence that fell over the garden was absolute. Every capo, every family member, every bodyguard froze in place, waiting for the explosion. They all knew Vincent had just crossed a line from which there was absolutely no return.
Malcolm didn't shout. He didn't argue. He simply secured Caleb tightly against his chest with his left arm, ensuring the boy was completely safe and protected from the impending violence.
