Chapter 5
The catastrophic destruction of the wine trolley left the entrance hall in a state of breathless, suffocating shock. The bright, natural lighting illuminated the carnage perfectly—the glittering shards of crystal, the scattered ribbons, and the bleeding, unconscious form of Preston lying in the wreckage.
Victoria stood frozen, her eyes wide with unadulterated terror as she stared at her broken husband. The arrogant, untouchable facade she had worn all evening shattered completely. But instead of falling to her knees or begging for mercy, her panic mutated into a desperate, hysterical, and entirely irrational fury.
Blinded by rage and the sudden loss of her power, Victoria’s eyes locked onto the small wooden airplane still resting in Winston’s massive hand. In her twisted mind, that cheap piece of wood was the catalyst that had destroyed her husband and her standing in the family.
"You crazy old bastard!" Victoria shrieked, her American accent pitching into a shrill, manic octave.
With complete disregard for her own life, Victoria lunges for the airplane.
She charged forward on her stiletto ankle boots, her emerald-green velvet wrap dress flapping violently. She reached her manicured, jewel-encrusted hands out, intending to snatch the toy from the Mafia boss and smash it on the floor to reclaim some twisted sense of dominance.
Winston moved with terrifying, effortless grace.
As her fingers brushed the wood, Winston violently tears it from her hand. He pulled the toy safely against his chest. Without a fraction of a second's hesitation, he pulled his right hand back and delivers one thunderous open-handed slap directly across her face.
The impact was brutally loud, a sharp, echoing crack that resonated off the high vaulted ceilings of the lodge.
The immense physical force of the slap sent Victoria spinning wildly. She lost her footing completely, her stiletto heels skidding uselessly against the polished floor as she was thrown violently backward across the room.
Victoria spins backward directly into the long gift-wrapping table.
The collision was massive. The heavy wooden table buckled under the impact of her body. Thick paper rolls unravel instantly, spooling out in long, chaotic ribbons of gold and silver across the floor. Giant, metallic bows explode through the air, raining down over the guests. The meticulously stacked towers of heavy gift boxes collapse in a dramatic avalanche, tumbling down around her.
Victoria lands heavily beside the overturned table. She hit the floor in a tangled heap of velvet, wrapping paper, and crushed cardboard. She gasped for air, entirely pinned beneath the debris, clutching her rapidly bruising, rosy cheek as the wind was violently knocked from her lungs.
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Once again, no dialogue was spoken.
The music in the lodge had stopped. The only sounds in the massive, brilliantly lit room were the soft, terrified whimpers of Victoria struggling beneath the boxes, and the heavy, ragged breathing of the stunned guests. Winston stood in the center of the destruction, an immovable monument of absolute, apocalyptic power.
