Chapter 4
The tension in the entrance hall snapped like a heavy steel cable.
Preston reached out, his hand grasping aggressively toward Jamal’s arm, intending to forcefully pull the trembling child out from the warmth of the camel-hair overcoat.
"Come here, Jamal," Preston commanded sharply.
Winston’s reaction was instantaneous, fluid, and explosively violent.
With blinding speed, Winston violently knocks Preston’s arm away. He used his left forearm, striking with such immense, bone-jarring force that Preston’s arm was thrown wildly into the air, completely shattering his balance.
Before Preston could even register the pain or attempt to recover, Winston pivoted perfectly on his polished leather boots. Engaging the terrifying, raw masculine power of his core, Winston pulled his right arm back and drives one explosive punch straight across Preston’s face.
The sickening crunch of shattering cartilage and bone cracked through the silent hall like a rifle shot.
The sheer kinetic energy of the blow was catastrophic. The thirty-eight-year-old man was lifted entirely off his suede loafers. Preston spins backward, completely airborne, his arms flailing uselessly as he hurtles across the polished timber floor.
He flew directly into the heavy wooden wine trolley parked near the edge of the room.
The collision was spectacular and utterly devastating. The wooden trolley rocketed violently sideways under his weight, its wheels screeching against the floorboards. The trolley smashed directly into the massive, rustic decorative sled display leaning against the wall.
The bright, cinematic colors of the room were suddenly filled with flying debris. Dozens of expensive, empty crystal wine glasses launched from the trolley shelves, shattering into a thousand glittering pieces across the floor. Decorative gift boxes were obliterated, their contents spilling out. Thick velvet ribbons and carved wooden holiday decorations scattered wildly through the air like shrapnel.
Preston crashed brutally through the collapsing arrangement. The heavy wooden sleds fell over him as he slammed into the floor, buried beneath the wreckage of the wine trolley and shattered glass. He hit the ground with a heavy, wet thud, his body completely limp. Blood poured freely from his ruined nose, soaking the pristine collar of his shirt and staining the front of his crimson cable-knit sweater.
No dialogue was spoken.
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The violence had been executed with terrifying, surgical precision. The elite guests and hardened bodyguards stared in absolute, paralyzed horror. The veteran Mafia boss had just physically decimated his own son in front of the entire syndicate with a single, flawless strike.
Winston stood perfectly still in the center of the room. He did not adjust his black cashmere turtleneck. His breathing remained slow, even, and entirely controlled. He held Jamal securely against his chest with his left arm, protecting the child from the flying glass, his dark eyes radiating an untouchable, lethal authority.
