Chapter 8 - The Betrayal Within
The safehouse had been breached because someone had given them the codes.
Within an hour of returning to the Manhattan penthouse, Damian’s counter-intelligence team tore through the digital logs. The betrayal had not come from the Russian syndicate; it had come from Richard—my former general manager at the Hargrove Hotel, who had been secretly on Jonathan Vale’s payroll for three years, laundering political campaign funds through the hotel's banquets. Richard had known the private courier schedule used to deliver Marco’s school materials.
Richard was already in Damian’s basement, singing like a canary to Lev’s interrogation team.
None of that mattered to me.
Nothing mattered except the burner phone sitting on the glass conference table in the penthouse war room.
When it rang, Damian put it on speaker.
“Volkov,” Jonathan Vale’s voice crackled through the speaker, raspy, manic, and unhinged. The sound of waves crashing against wood echoed in the background. “I assume you survived my greeting at the museum.”
“Jonathan,” Damian said, his voice flat, devoid of human emotion. “If a single mark is on that boy, I will skin you alive in front of your daughter.”
A high, hysterical laugh came through the line. Cassandra.
“Tell your little waitress to listen!” Cassandra shrieked. “We are at the old Red Hook maritime dry dock. Slip 4. Sofia comes alone. No guards. No tracking devices. If we see a single Volkov car within five blocks, my father puts a bullet through Marco’s head and dumps him in the East River!”
“No!” I screamed, leaning over the table. “Cassandra! Don't touch him! I’m coming! I swear to God I’m coming alone!”
“One hour, waitress,” Jonathan Vale said coldly. “Or your brother becomes fish food.”
The line went dead.
I turned toward the door immediately, but Damian grabbed my uninjured arm, pulling me back.
“You are not going alone,” Damian said, his eyes wild with anger. “It’s a slaughterhouse, Sofia. They don't want an exchange. They want to execute both of you to cover their tracks before fleeing the country on a private vessel.”
“He is my *brother*, Damian!” I shouted, ripping my arm from his grasp, tears streaming down my face. “He is fifteen years old! He has asthma! He is terrified! If I don't go, he dies!”
“And if you go alone, you die with him!” Damian roared, stepping into my path, towering over me.
“Then give me a gun!”
Damian froze.
Elena, who sat near the communications terminal, looked up sharply.
“Give me a weapon,” I repeated, stepping into Damian’s space, my voice dead, cold, and lethal. “Teach me how to fire it. Put a tracker in my shoe. Bring your army. But I am walking through those doors first. Because Cassandra wants me. She wants to see me beg. And while she is watching me beg... you kill every last one of them.”
Damian stared at me. In the depths of his gray eyes, I saw something shift—a profound, staggering realization that I was no longer a helpless waitress caught in a storm.
I was a weapon forged in the same fire as him.
Slowly, Damian reached inside his coat. He pulled out a sleek, compact Glock 43, removed the magazine to show me the full brass rounds, and slapped it back in with a crisp, metallic click.
He placed the cold steel into my hands.
“Safety is here,” Damian said, wrapping his large hands over mine, guiding my finger to the trigger guard. “Point at center mass. Do not hesitate. If you hesitate, you die.”
He leaned down, pressing his lips firmly against mine, tasting of salt and fury.
“I will be thirty seconds behind you,” Damian whispered against my mouth. “I will not let you fall, Sofia. Trust me.”
I looked into the eyes of the devil who loved me.
May you like
“I trust you.”
***