Chapter 5
The insult hung in the air for only a fraction of a second before Marcus's aggressive pride completely overrode his survival instincts. Desperate to prove himself in front of the assembled high society, Marcus planted his polished shoes, pulled his right arm back, and swung a wild, aggressive punch aimed directly at Lorenzo's jaw.
It was a fatal miscalculation.
Lorenzo Carbone was sixty-five years old, but his reflexes had been forged in the most brutal boxing rings of his generation. The muscle memory was permanent. As Marcus’s fist flew through the air, Lorenzo didn't even flinch. He simply shifted his weight on his sturdy legs, dropping his center of gravity. He slipped perfectly to the side, letting Marcus’s wild punch sail harmlessly over his broad shoulder.
Before Marcus could even realize he had missed, Lorenzo retaliated.
The veteran boxer pivoted his thick thighs, generating massive torque that traveled up through his solid torso and into his broad shoulders. His heavy right forearm snapped forward with terrifying, explosive speed. He drove one devastating punch directly across Marcus’s face.
The sound of the impact was sickening—a brutal, heavy crack of bone that echoed sharply against the marble columns.
The sheer kinetic force of the blow lifted Marcus entirely off his feet. The younger man flew backward through the air, his expensive navy suit flailing wildly. He crashed violently into a towering, elaborate champagne station positioned near the edge of the terrace.
The destruction was absolute. White-clothed tables buckled under his weight. Hundreds of crystal champagne glasses and heavy green bottles shattered instantly, scattering across the carpeted floor in a chaotic wave of glass and spraying alcohol. The floral displays collapsed on top of him, burying him in crushed petals and ruined crystal.
No dialogue was spoken.
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Marcus lay completely motionless among the wreckage of the champagne station, his fair skin rapidly bruising, a dark trickle of blood running from his shattered nose.
Lorenzo slowly pulled his fist back, his breathing barely elevated. He rolled his heavy shoulders inside his tailored jacket, settling back into a balanced, predatory stance. He did not look down at the ruined man bleeding on the floor. His deep-set brown eyes slowly dragged upward, fixing once again on Ramona, who was standing on the viewing platform, paralyzed with sheer, unadulterated terror. The crowd of donors remained completely silent, mesmerized and horrified by the explosive, surgical violence they had just witnessed.
