Chapter 8
The chaotic aftermath of the violence left the luxury boutique in a state of suspended animation. The bright, cinematic video colors of the room—the emerald draperies, the sparkling shattered crystal, the vivid designer shoes—created a beautiful but horrific backdrop. Damian Bellucci took a slow, deep breath, his broad chest expanding beneath his tailored suit. The charming, romantic look of his wavy hair falling over his forehead completely contradicted the lethal monster pacing the floor.
Damian began to walk.
His polished leather shoes stepped methodically through the scattered designer shoes and the thousands of shards of shattered crystal. He did not rush. The slow, rhythmic crunch of glass beneath his feet was the only sound in the massive hall.
He approached the heavy ballroom doors where Grant Mercer lay gasping for shallow, painful breaths. Grant’s fair, rosy face was a ruined mask of blood and bruising. He looked up at the towering Mafia Boss, his eyes wide with unadulterated terror.
Damian stopped just inches from Grant’s broken body. He looked down, his sharp, intimidating eyes completely devoid of human empathy.
"You missed," Damian said. His voice was dead calm. He spoke slowly, with those terrifying, controlled pauses between his words, keeping his volume so low that Grant had to strain to hear his own death sentence. "My daughter... does not have a single scratch... on her body."
Grant let out a pathetic, wet sob, clutching his shattered ribs. "Damian, please. I'm begging you. I have a family."
"You... had a family," Damian corrected softly, his voice devoid of any warmth. "Now... you have a debt. And you are going to pay it... right now."
Damian slowly crouched down, balancing effortlessly on the balls of his feet. He rested his forearms on his knees, his tattooed hands dangling casually in front of Grant’s terrified face.
"A man in your position... does not act alone," Damian murmured, his American accent crisp and lethal. "You are a coward, Grant. A coward requires... a guarantee. He requires... a massive payday... to risk his life."
"They forced me!" Grant wheezed, blood bubbling on his lips. "They said if I didn't do it, they would kill my wife! I didn't want to hurt the kid, I swear to God!"
"Do not... swear to God," Damian whispered, leaning in closer. "I am the only higher power... that can save you from a slow, agonizing death... in my basement. Now... tell me who paid you."
Grant’s face became a portrait of absolute, paralyzing fright. He looked frantically around the bright, silent room, his eyes darting toward the cowering guests, searching for any possible salvation. He found none. He looked back into Damian’s cold, sharp eyes.
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"It was the Chicago outfit," Grant choked out, his voice a broken, desperate rasp. "They paid me two million dollars. They said... they said if I took out the heir, it would destabilize your command. They want the western ports, Damian. They want everything."
Damian did not blink. The confession hung in the bright, cinematic air, sealing the fate of a rival syndicate thousands of miles away.
