The impact was catastrophic. Richard crashed into the heavy metal structure with the force of a wrecking ball. The tall tower buckled inward, groaning with a loud, metallic shriek.
Padded bottle sleeves exploded from their designated slots, flying through the air like shrapnel. Heavy, empty silver ice buckets tumbled chaotically across the marble, clattering loudly as they bounced toward the terrified guests. Large, polished silver serving trays flipped outward, spinning across the floor in a dazzling display of reflected chandelier light.
Richard crashed entirely through the collapsing lower frame of the tower. He hit the ground in a tangled, groaning heap of twisted metal, scattered ice buckets, and rolling serving trays. His tailored black tuxedo was covered in dust, and blood was already pooling from the deep laceration on his cheekbone. He lay utterly incapacitated, his reign over before it even began.
There was no dialogue. The overwhelming, brutal reality of the violence silenced every single person in the room. The white American guests stared in wide-eyed horror, their phones still raised, having just captured the absolute physical dismantling of the senior Mafia associate by a woman in a gold evening gown.
Elena stood in the center of the wreckage, her breathing perfectly controlled. She slowly lowered her fist, flexing her fingers to ensure the heavy signet ring sat comfortably. She did not look at the bleeding man buried in the champagne accessories. Her cold, sharp eyes immediately shifted, tracking the woman attempting to flee the scene.
