Chapter 3
Lorenzo stormed across the terrace, the wealthy donors parting frantically to get out of the path of the massive, furious patriarch. His heavy leather shoes thudded against the carpet like the drums of war. He didn't even look at Ramona yet. His deep-set brown eyes were locked entirely on his family.
He dropped to one knee beside Alina, his thick thighs straining against the fabric of his tailored trousers. His large fighter’s hands—scarred from decades in the ring—reached out with heartbreaking gentleness. He scooped the small, crying Lucy safely into his powerful muscular arms, pressing her face into the crook of his thick neck.
"I've got you, my sweet girl. Papa is here," Lorenzo whispered, his voice vibrating deep within his solid torso. He reached out with his other hand, grasping Alina’s arm and carefully pulling her up to stand securely behind his broad shoulders. "Are you hurt, Alina?"
"I'm alright. I protected her head," Alina replied, her voice shaking as she smoothed her burgundy dress and leaned against his solid back for support. "Lorenzo, she pushed us. She just shoved us right off the platform."
Lucy pulled her tear-streaked, rosy face away from Lorenzo’s neck. The three-year-old girl was trembling violently, her pale pink dress slightly wrinkled from the fall. She raised a small, shaking finger and pointed fearfully up at the viewing platform, directly at Ramona.
"She pushed Mommy, Papa," Lucy cried, her innocent voice breaking the silence of the horrified crowd. "She said Mommy would disappear tonight. She said it was permanent!"
Lorenzo’s thick eyebrows lowered, casting dark, terrifying shadows over his brown eyes. The gentle father vanished, instantly replaced by the brutal, calculating heavyweight who had destroyed men for a living. He slowly stood up to his full height, holding Lucy firmly against his deep chest. He turned his weathered face upward, locking eyes with Ramona.
"Is that right, Ramona?" Lorenzo asked, his voice dropping to a low, gravelly timber that was infinitely more frightening than a shout. "You want to make my wife disappear?"
Ramona swallowed hard, the first flicker of genuine fear piercing her cold, calculating facade. "Lorenzo, please. Alina provoked me. She has been poisoning your mind against the family for years. I was simply trying to remind her of her place."
"Her place is beside me," Lorenzo stated, taking a slow, heavy step toward the platform. "And you just put your hands on my blood. You put my daughter on the floor."
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"Lorenzo, be reasonable," a male voice interjected smoothly from the crowd.
Marcus Carbone stepped out from the paralyzing shock of the donors, his expensive navy suit catching the bright sunlight. At forty-one, Marcus was arrogant, aggressive, and foolish enough to believe his youth gave him an advantage over the aging patriarch.
