Chapter 2
The world tilted violently as Alina lost her footing. The drop from the viewing platform to the lower carpeted terrace was only a few feet, but it was enough to cause serious harm, especially to a three-year-old child. In a split second of pure maternal instinct, Alina twisted her body mid-air. She wrapped her arms fiercely around Lucy, pulling the little girl in the pale pink dress tightly against her chest to shield her from the impact.
They hit the carpeted lower terrace hard. Alina took the brunt of the fall on her shoulder and hip, letting out a sharp gasp of pain as her elegant burgundy dress snagged against the short stairs. Lucy burst into terrified, breathless tears, clinging to her mother’s neck as they rolled to a stop at the base of the platform.
The clinking of champagne glasses and polite chatter of the wealthy donors instantly ceased. The crowd gasped in horror, stepping back from the fallen mother and child, paralyzed by the sudden eruption of violence in their refined sanctuary.
Ramona stood at the edge of the viewing platform, looking down at them. Her elegant cream dress was perfectly unruffled, her fair skin flushed with a cruel sense of victory. She did not offer a hand. She did not look shocked. She simply stared down with absolute, freezing contempt.
"Some problems need permanent solutions," Ramona stated coldly, her voice carrying easily over the stunned silence of the terrace. "You should have packed your bags when you had the chance, Alina."
Alina groaned, pushing herself up onto one arm while keeping Lucy safely tucked beneath her. "You are completely insane, Ramona," she breathed, wincing in pain. "He is going to kill you for this."
"He will thank me," Ramona replied arrogantly. "Lorenzo is an old man who needs to be saved from his own sentimentality."
Suddenly, the heavy glass doors leading from the main clubhouse burst open with terrifying force. The sound was like a gunshot.
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Lorenzo Carbone stormed onto the terrace. At sixty-five, the veteran heavyweight boxer was an imposing, terrifying figure. He possessed a broad square face anchored by a massive strong jaw and prominent cheekbones. His slightly crooked boxer’s nose and deep-set brown eyes gave him the look of an apex predator. Short dark-gray hair was brushed firmly back from a weathered face lined with age and violence. He wore an elegant, well-tailored formal suit that barely contained his dense, battle-worn old-school boxer physique. Broad shoulders, a thick neck, a deep chest, heavy forearms, and thick thighs—he moved with a lethal, terrifying speed that completely defied his age.
"Alina!" Lorenzo roared, his deep, gravelly American accent echoing off the marble columns. He saw his wife on the floor and his daughter crying, and the civilized world around him instantly vanished.
