Chapter 7
The terrace of the exclusive polo club, minutes ago a haven of polite high-society networking, now resembled a disaster zone. The scent of spilled champagne mixed heavily with the expensive perfumes of the horrified guests. Marcus remained unconscious in a pile of shattered crystal. Ramona was weeping quietly on the floor, tangled in the overturned upholstered chairs.
Lorenzo Carbone stood in the center of the carnage, completely unbothered by the destruction. His broad square face was set in a mask of absolute, unyielding authority. He did not look at the wealthy donors cowering near the marble columns. He simply raised his hand and gave a sharp, single nod to the perimeter.
Instantly, the bodyguards—large, white American men in dark suits who had been standing discreetly by the edges of the terrace—moved into action.
They didn't speak. They moved with coordinated, military precision. The heavy brass handles of the large exit doors leading into the main clubhouse were pulled shut. The metallic click of the heavy deadbolts echoed loudly across the terrace, sealing the exits. The guards stationed themselves firmly in front of every possible escape route, their hands resting menacingly on their waistbands. They quietly closed and locked every exit, turning the open-air terrace into a heavily guarded, inescapable prison.
The sudden lockdown sent a fresh wave of panic through the wealthy donors. A few of the guests gasped, clutching their pearls and adjusting their ties, but no one dared to raise their voice to protest. They all knew exactly who Lorenzo Carbone was, and they knew the rules of his world.
Lorenzo stepped backward, positioning his solid torso and broad shoulders squarely between his family and the ruined relatives on the floor. Alina stood right behind him, holding the crying three-year-old tightly to her chest, her elegant burgundy dress standing out fiercely against the dark suits of the guards.
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Lorenzo stared down at Ramona, then shifted his deep-set brown eyes toward the groaning Marcus, who was just beginning to regain consciousness among the broken bottles.
"Nobody leaves," Lorenzo stated, his voice quiet, gravelly, and absolutely lethal. It carried effortlessly across the locked terrace. "Nobody leaves until I know who planned this."
