Chapter 8 - The Hunt Begins
Dawn did not bring peace. It brought the mobilization of an army.
By six in the morning, the courtyard of the estate looked like a forward operating base. Six black armored SUVs idle on the cobblestones, while twenty heavily armed men in unmarked tactical gear loaded crates of assault rifles, breaching charges, and medical trauma kits into the trunks.
Damian stood in the center of the Great Hall, wearing a black tactical vest over a dark compression shirt. His hair was slicked back, his expression carved from basalt.
Arthur Vance had not died in vain. Before the bullet claimed him, he had surrendered the encryption keys to the burner phones used to communicate with Vincent Rossi—the patriarch of the rival syndicate who had orchestrated the hit on Bellamy House.
Rossi was not hiding in an Italian villa or a fortified compound in the suburbs. He was holed up in an abandoned industrial grain elevator on the south bank of the Chicago River, surrounded by thirty hired mercenaries, waiting for confirmation that Damian had been killed by the sniper.
He didn't know Damian was coming for his throat.
“Marco,” Damian said, adjusting the radio pinned to his vest. “Perimeter teams stay here. The manor remains under Level-Four lockdown. No one leaves the vault until I personally broadcast the all-clear code.”
“Understood, Boss,” Marco nodded, checking the magazine of his rifle. “The city police have been diverted by the commissioner. We have an eight-minute window after the initial breach before state authorities get involved.”
“Eight minutes is seven more than I need,” Damian replied coldly.
I stood by the archway of the Great Hall, holding Luca’s hand.
Damian turned. His eyes found mine across the vast room, cutting through the armed men, through the noise of radio chatter and tactical checks.
He walked toward us, his heavy combat boots echoing off the limestone. He knelt in front of Luca first, resting his large hands on the boy’s shoulders.
“Rex is in charge of the bunker today, little bird,” Damian said, his voice dropping into that gentle, private tone he reserved only for his child. “You stay with Emma. You do not touch the doors.”
“Are you going to break the bad men?” Luca asked, clutching the dinosaur to his chest.
“I am going to make sure they never look at our house again,” Damian replied. He leaned forward, kissing his son’s forehead with intense, protective devotion.
Then he rose to his full height and looked down at me.
The memory of our kiss in the bunker hung between us, heavy, electric, and undeniable. His dark eyes flicked over my face, memorizing every line, every breath.
“If the radio goes dead for more than twenty minutes,” Damian said, his voice dropping into a harsh whisper that only I could hear, “Marco has orders to put you and Luca on a private jet to Zurich. The credentials and bank routing numbers are in the safe behind the painting.”
Fear, cold and sharp, gripped my heart. I grabbed the front of his tactical vest, my fingers digging into the ballistic nylon.
“Don't talk like that,” I said, my voice shaking with sudden fury. “You come back here. You hear me? You don't leave me alone with your empire, Damian. You finish this and you walk back through those doors.”
A ghost of a smile—fierce, lethal, and shockingly beautiful—touched his lips.
He reached up, his gloved hand cupping the side of my face, his thumb grazing my cheekbone.
“I spent thirty-four years looking for a reason to burn the world down, Emma,” he murmured, leaning down until his lips brushed against my forehead in a lingering, fierce kiss. “And now I have two reasons to come back alive. Lock the doors.”
He turned on his heel without another word and walked out into the misty dawn.
May you like
The heavy oak doors slammed shut behind him. Seconds later, the low roar of six turbocharged engines shook the foundation of the house as the convoy tore down the driveway, leaving us in the suffocating silence of the fortress.
***
