Chapter 4
Marcus adjusted his cuffs, his fair skin flushing with a mixture of anger and arrogant entitlement. He strode confidently across the carpeted terrace, interposing himself squarely between Lorenzo and the viewing platform where Ramona stood. His polished shoes stopped just inches away from the veteran boxer.
"You need to calm down, Lorenzo," Marcus said, his tone dripping with condescension. "Ramona overreacted, yes, but you cannot deny the underlying truth of the situation. Alina has isolated you from the board. She has isolated you from the family trust."
Lorenzo did not blink. He handed the crying Lucy safely backward into Alina’s waiting arms. Alina took the child, her protective instincts fully engaged, and took two steps back to give her husband the space he needed.
"Move out of my way, Marcus," Lorenzo commanded quietly, his broad square face completely devoid of emotion.
"No, I won't move," Marcus sneered, his aggressiveness inflating as he tried to assert dominance in front of the wealthy donors. "You are embarrassing the family, Lorenzo. You are letting a younger wife dictate the future of a legacy you didn't even build alone."
"I built it with my fists. I built it with my blood," Lorenzo rumbled, his thick neck cording with tension. "And you are standing in my way."
Marcus, blinded by his own arrogance and fundamentally misunderstanding the lethal danger standing in front of him, reached out aggressively. He grabbed the lapel of Lorenzo’s elegant, well-tailored formal jacket with a firm, threatening grip.
"Alina became a family problem," Marcus stated arrogantly, his American accent sharp and challenging. "And the family is simply trying to solve it before you ruin everything we have."
The entire terrace held its breath. The bodyguards standing by the exits tensed, knowing exactly what was about to happen.
Lorenzo looked down at Marcus's hand gripping his jacket. He didn't shout. He didn't curse. He simply raised his own large, scarred fighter’s hand and slowly, deliberately, removed Marcus’s hand from his lapel. His grip was like a steel vice, crushing the bones in Marcus’s fingers just enough to make the younger man gasp in pain and release the fabric.
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"You think my wife is a problem?" Lorenzo whispered, stepping directly into Marcus’s personal space. The sheer mass of his old-school boxer physique towered over the younger man. "You think you can come to my club, threaten my wife, put my daughter in danger, and then put your hands on me?"
Marcus rubbed his aching hand, his face twisting into a mask of humiliated rage. "You're a washed-up old man, Lorenzo. You don't scare me anymore."
