Chapter 6 - The Confrontation
The ballroom of the Drake Hotel was a sea of diamonds and designer tuxedos. The moment Enzo and Harper entered, the room went dead silent. The high society of Chicago stared at the mafia king and the fallen princess.
Harper kept her chin high, her arm looped through Enzo's. She felt the heavy, protective presence of Mateo and three of Enzo's men trailing them.
Then, she saw him.
Preston Whitcomb looked ten years older. His usual arrogant swagger was replaced by a twitchy, desperate energy. When he spotted Harper, his eyes locked onto her, flashing with an old, familiar fury. He marched toward them.
"Harper," Preston hissed, ignoring Enzo entirely. "You ungrateful little bitch. You told him about the offshore keys, didn't you? Get your coat. We're leaving."
He reached out to grab her wrist.
Preston never made contact.
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Enzo moved with terrifying speed. He intercepted Preston’s hand, twisting the older man's wrist backward until a sickening pop echoed over the string quartet. Preston screamed, dropping to his knees on the marble floor.
"You forget your place, Preston," Enzo said smoothly, his voice carrying effortlessly across the silent ballroom. "You do not speak to my wife. You do not look at my wife. And if you ever try to touch her again, I won't just break your hand. I'll take it off."
