Chapter 7
The bright video colors of the room—the rich drapery, the pristine table linens—felt like a surreal, contrasting backdrop to the violent, dark reality unfolding on the floor. Vincent stood immovable, a terrifying monument of wrath, shielding the weeping child behind his legs. Laura and David stood just behind him, their faces pale but resolute, trusting their patriarch entirely.
Margaret, however, was driven entirely mad by the public humiliation of being physically bested. Her breathing was ragged, her chest heaving beneath her formal outfit. Her heavy pearl jewelry clicked together as she trembled with absolute, venomous fury.
"You dare lay a hand on me, Vincent?" Margaret hissed, her American accent distorted by rage. "I practically raised you! I am your elder! You will not undermine me for this... this piece of garbage!"
Completely unhinged and refusing to accept defeat, Margaret made the final, fatal mistake of her long life.
She reached forward again. Her hands clawed aggressively through the empty air, lunging past Vincent’s hip in a desperate, deranged attempt to grab Emma for a second time.
Vincent’s eyes darkened into black voids.
He didn't grab her wrist this time. Vincent stepped into her space, closing the distance instantly. He brought both of his massive, tattooed hands up and grabbed Margaret firmly by both of her upper arms. His grip was crushing, digging through the fabric of her expensive outfit, completely immobilizing her.
With a sudden, explosive burst of kinetic force, Vincent forcefully pushed her backward.
He didn't throw her to the ground; he drove her backward across the polished marble floor. The sheer physical dominance of the Mafia Boss overwhelmed the sixty-eight-year-old woman. She backpedaled frantically, entirely out of control, until she crashed violently against the heavy, closed wooden doors of the kitchen.
The impact was loud and resonant. Margaret gasped as the air was knocked from her lungs, her back slamming hard against the wood.
The moment she hit the doors, the estate's security apparatus executed their final maneuver.
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Two massive, white American bodyguards, dressed in immaculate professional suits, immediately stepped forward from the shadows. They moved with silent, military precision, sliding perfectly into the space between Vincent and the kitchen doors. They formed an impenetrable, human wall, completely cutting Margaret off from the children and the rest of the banquet hall.
The bodyguards stood shoulder-to-shoulder, their hands resting ominously near the lapels of their jackets. They stared straight ahead, their fair faces set in stone, waiting for the Boss to pass his final judgment. Margaret was trapped, pinned against the doors, staring down the barrel of her own absolute ruin.
