Not just anger. Not just control.
Something far worse.
Something that promised consequences.
“Boss—” the man stammered, scrambling to recover, his hands half-raised as if that would save him.
“I was just—”
Vincenzo cut him off, moving like a flash—charging at him fast.
Like a madman, his fist clenched so tight I could hear bones cracking.
I heard it—the grinding of bone under pressure.
The first punch landed with brutal precision—right across the man’s jaw.
A sickening crack echoed as his head snapped sideways.
The second blow drove into his ribs.
Air rushed out of him in a sharp, pained gasp.
The third split his lip open, blood spraying across the white tile in a fine, violent arc.
But Vincenzo didn’t stop.
He advanced.
Drove him backward.
Each strike more controlled than the last, yet somehow more devastating.
The man slammed into the wall with a dull thud.
Vincenzo followed immediately, pinning him there with a forearm pressed across his throat.
And then—he lost control.
His composure shattered.
What followed was not discipline.
It was pure, unrestrained fury.
He drove his fist into the man’s face again.
And again.
And again.
Each impact heavier than the last.
Each blow driven by something deeper than anger.
Something personal. Something consuming.
Bone cracked. Blood splattered.
