Chapter 4
The insult hung in the hot afternoon air, vile and unforgivable. Vincent’s arrogant smirk remained plastered across his fair, rosy face, completely blind to the lethal danger radiating from the man standing before him.
Malcolm moved with the sudden, terrifying speed of an apex predator striking its prey. He didn't telegraph his movements; there was no hesitation, no warning.
With his free right hand, Malcolm reached up and clamped his large fingers around Vincent’s wrist. He tore Vincent’s hand away from his shoulder with such brutal, crushing force that the younger capo let out a sharp gasp of pain, his bones grinding together under Malcolm's massive grip.
Without pausing for a fraction of a second, Malcolm pivoted his hips, driving the full weight of his muscular, broad-shouldered frame into one explosive, devastating punch squarely across Vincent’s face.
The sickening, heavy thud of knuckles colliding with bone echoed across the silent lawn like a gunshot. The heavy family signet ring on Malcolm’s finger connected perfectly with Vincent’s cheekbone, delivering a staggering amount of kinetic force.
Vincent’s arrogant smirk was literally shattered. His eyes rolled back instantly into his head. The sheer power of the blow lifted the forty-year-old capo completely off his designer loafers.
Vincent spun violently backward, completely out of control, his arms flailing uselessly in the air. He crashed directly into the tall wooden garden trellis positioned beside the terrace.
The impact was catastrophic. The thick wooden structure groaned loudly before snapping entirely sideways under his dead weight. Woven wooden slats exploded outward, raining splinters over the grass. Heavy, hanging herb baskets tore completely loose from their iron hooks, plummeting downward. Dark, rich potting soil exploded across Vincent’s expensive summer suit, completely ruining the immaculate fabric.
The wooden slats collapsed heavily over his shoulders, pinning him to the ground, and several large, empty clay pots that had been resting on the shelves smashed violently across the stone around him, sending sharp terracotta shrapnel flying in every direction.
Vincent dropped completely beneath the wreckage, sprawled out on the stone and dirt, entirely unconscious before he even hit the ground. Blood pooled rapidly from his shattered nose, soaking into the collar of his ruined shirt.
There was no dialogue. The entire garden party stood absolutely paralyzed. Capos froze with their hands hovering near their holstered weapons, completely unsure of how to react. Striking a made man, especially the son of the matriarch, was a death sentence under the old Mafia codes. But confronting Malcolm Ashford in a blind rage was an even faster way to die.
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Malcolm didn't even look at the unconscious man buried under the broken trellis and shattered clay pots. He simply adjusted his grip on Caleb, who was clutching his father's neck, burying his face into the dark suit to hide from the violence. Malcolm’s chest heaved slightly, his breathing controlled and even, his tailored three-piece suit completely unwrinkled.
He slowly turned his piercing, deep eyes away from the wreckage of the trellis, locking his lethal gaze onto the woman who had started it all. Evelyn stood frozen near the stacked planters, her eyes wide with shock as she stared at the broken body of her son.
