Chapter 3 - Blood on the Horizon
By my second week at Willowcrest, the pain in my side had dulled to a stiff ache, but the atmosphere inside the compound grew heavier by the hour.
The news was carefully kept away from Luca, but I wasn't blind. Every television in the compound was tuned to business channels where Damian's shipping empire was suffering sudden "regulatory holds" at the Port of Chicago. Two warehouse fires in the south district had dominated the local papers.
The Morettis were choking Damian’s supply lines, testing his perimeter, daring him to strike back.
Yet inside the house, another reality was unfolding.
Luca refused to leave my side. Every afternoon after his private tutoring, he would race to the library where I sat reading, carrying his sketchbooks and toys. He had refused to speak for months after his mother had vanished years ago, Elena had whispered to me one evening. But with me, he never stopped talking.
"Look, Emma! Terry found a crystal cave!" Luca shouted, arranging brightly painted stones across the wool rug in Damian’s private study.
I smiled, setting down my tea. "Is the cave safe from the bad storms, Luca?"
"Yep! Because Terry has armor. Just like Papa has armor. And Terry says you get the golden crown because you stopped the flying glass." He handed me a small, carefully folded paper crown colored with yellow crayon.
Tears pricked my eyes as I placed it gently on my head. "Thank you, sweet boy."
The double doors of the study clicked open. Damian entered, unbuttoning his waistcoat, flanked by Marco. Damian looked exhausted; dark circles bruised the skin beneath his eyes, and his tie hung loose around his unbuttoned collar.
Marco stopped at the doorway, bowing slightly before exiting and pulling the heavy mahogany doors shut behind him.
Damian stopped in his tracks, his gaze landing on the paper crown sitting on my dark hair. For the first time since I had met him, the grim, predatory lines of his face softened into an authentic, breath-taking smile.
"A crown suits you, Miss Carter," Damian said, walking toward the desk.
"Papa! Terry and Emma made a fortress!" Luca announced, running to wrap his arms around his father’s tailored leg.
Damian scooped his son up with one arm, pressing a tender kiss to Luca’s curls. "Did she now? And is the fortress impregnable?"
"Un-breach-able!" Luca declared proudly.
"Good. Because Elena has hot chocolate and cinnamon toast waiting for you in the kitchen. Run down and see her."
Luca cheered, wriggled down, and bolted toward the door, turning once to wave at me before vanishing into the hallway.
When the room went quiet, Damian sank into the leather chair opposite me, leaning his head back and closing his eyes with a heavy sigh.
"Bad day at the docks?" I asked softly.
"Three million in cargo seized under false customs flags," Damian answered without opening his eyes. "Giancarlo Moretti bought off the federal port commissioner. He wants a war."
"Can he win?"
Damian opened his eyes then. They were black pools of absolute lethal certainty. "No. But he can make it bloody."
I looked at my hands, clasped in my lap. "You could have handed me over. Told them I was nobody. A random waitress who got in the way. It would have saved you a dozen headaches."
Damian leaned forward suddenly, resting his elbows on his knees, closing the distance between us until I could feel the heat radiating from his broad shoulders.
"Do you really think so little of me, Emma?" he whispered. "Do you think I let animals hunt the woman who bled for my child?"
"I don't know you, Damian," I admitted honestly, holding his gaze despite the tremor in my chest. "I know the rumors. I know you're dangerous."
"I *am* dangerous," he said, reaching out to tuck a stray lock of hair behind my ear, his knuckles lingering against my warm skin. "To my enemies, I am a nightmare. But to you? To Luca?" His voice cracked with a deep, volcanic intensity. "I would dismantle this entire city brick by brick before I let a single hand touch either of you."
My heart pounded violently against my ribs. "Damian..."
Before he could answer, his secure satellite phone buzzed loudly against the desk.
Damian looked at the caller ID. His eyes turned into shards of ice.
"Speak," he answered coldly.
A voice crackled through the speaker: *"Boss, we caught the runner from the mezzanine balcony. The one who set the spring rig at Bellamy House. He’s in the basement at the river facility."*
Damian stood up, his protective warmth vanishing instantly behind a mask of cold obsidian.
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"Keep him breathing," Damian ordered. "I’m coming down."
***