Chapter 3
The bright, cinematic colors of the ballroom seemed to sharpen into razor-thin focus. The pure, natural lighting highlighted the sheer, unfiltered rage that suddenly erupted across Cassian’s handsome, rugged face. The moment Vivienne’s ringed fingers closed around the crying three-year-old’s wrist, the shock paralyzing the Mafia boss vanished entirely, replaced by a lethal, protective instinct.
Cassian moved with terrifying, explosive speed. He surged forward, his polished leather shoes gripping the marble floor. He reached out and violently tore Vivienne’s hand away from Isla. The sheer, masculine force of his grip caused the sixty-three-year-old matriarch to gasp in pain, her pearl jewelry rattling against her collarbone as she stumbled backward.
"Do not ever touch her again," Cassian snarled, his raspy voice dropping into an incredibly dark, menacing register. He immediately pulled Isla safely behind his tailored legs, shielding the child completely with his towering body.
"Cassian, you don't understand!" Vivienne stammered, her fair, rosy face turning pale as she rubbed her bruised wrist. "That woman is a liar and an opportunist! She is trying to extort this family!"
Before Cassian could demand an explanation, the heavy, imposing figure of Tristan Morelli stepped aggressively into the fray. At forty years old, Vivienne’s son and a senior Mafia capo was a man fueled by blind ambition and misplaced arrogance. He wore an expensive tailored suit, the family pin glinting on his lapel, his luxury wristwatch catching the bright light. His fair skin was flushed red with anger at seeing his mother manhandled.
"Back off, Cassian!" Tristan roared, his American accent echoing loudly over the stunned crowd.
Tristan closed the distance and violently shoved Cassian backward by the shoulders of his suit jacket. The forceful push sent Cassian stumbling half a step across the marble. Without waiting for a response, Tristan planted his feet, pulled his right arm back, and threw a heavy, desperate punch.
The closed fist connected with a sickening crack across Cassian’s cheek, right against his neatly trimmed beard.
The entire ballroom inhaled a collective, horrified gasp. Striking the head of the Morelli organization was an act of explicit, suicidal treason. The white American bodyguards standing along the perimeter of the room instantly reached inside their dark suits, waiting only for Cassian’s signal to draw their weapons.
Isla, terrified by the sudden explosion of violence, let out a sharp cry and immediately retreated. She ran past the shattered champagne glass and hid herself safely behind Elena’s elegant gown, clutching the fabric with trembling hands.
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Elena wrapped her arms protectively around her daughter, her heart hammering against her ribs. She stared in absolute terror at the two powerful men.
Cassian slowly turned his head back to face his cousin. The red mark on his rosy cheek was the only evidence of the strike. His expression was completely, terrifyingly still. No dialogue was spoken. The silence was an apocalyptic promise of the violence that was about to be unleashed.
