Chapter 7
He didn't wait for her to answer. Damon turned his head slightly, his gaze sweeping over the four heavily armed guards stationed near the salon doors.
"Are you men going to secure this traitor, or must I break her legs myself before we walk downstairs?" Damon asked, his command absolute.
Two massive enforcers stepped forward instantly, moving with terrifying, synchronized efficiency. They grabbed Celeste roughly by the arms, entirely ignoring the expensive fabric of her luxurious satin gown.
"Get your hands off me!" Celeste screamed as they dragged her backward toward the service corridor. "I am Celeste Morrow! I am going to be the lady of this house! Damon, call them off!"
"Take her to the holding cells in the sub-basement," Damon commanded, his voice completely devoid of emotion. "Ensure the temperature is dropped, and that she is stripped of all jewelry and communication devices."
"You are a dead man, Damon!" Celeste wailed as they hauled her through the heavy doors. "You hear me? You are a dead man!"
"We will see," Damon murmured to the empty room.
The heavy service doors slammed shut, instantly cutting off Celeste’s frantic, echoing screams. The grand salon was plunged back into a profound, ringing silence. The towering Christmas tree continued to sparkle with golden lights and crimson ribbons, a surreal, festive backdrop to the brutal mafia justice that had just been executed.
Damon stood perfectly still for a long moment, the adrenaline of the confrontation slowly ebbing from his system, leaving behind a profound, aching exhaustion. He had defended the woman who had quietly captured his heart and protected his son from a horrifying trauma. But the political fallout with the Morrow family would inevitably ignite a massive war in the coming days. Celeste's father, a powerful underboss with deep ties to the eastern ports, would not let the imprisonment of his daughter go unanswered. Blood would inevitably spill on the snow before the new year.
Damon let out a slow, controlled breath. He unbuttoned his suit jacket, rolling his broad shoulders to release the coiled tension. He looked at the sabotaged stepladder, a fierce, protective rage continuing to burn in his chest. He needed to secure his son. He needed to ensure the estate was locked down before the Morrow syndicate realized the coup had failed.
He turned and strode purposefully out of the grand salon, ascending the marble staircase two steps at a time. His polished shoes were silent on the thick carpet as he headed straight for his private quarters on the second floor.
He approached the heavy wooden door of the master suite. Two enforcers stood guard, their hands resting on their holstered weapons. They nodded respectfully as the boss approached.
"Is the perimeter secure?" Damon asked, his deep voice carrying a quiet urgency.
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"Yes, Boss. No one has entered or exited the wing," the lead guard confirmed, stepping aside to open the heavy door for him.
Damon stepped into his private quarters. The room was bathed in the soft, warm glow of a roaring fireplace. Oliver was sitting on the edge of the massive four-poster bed, having shed his cream sweater, looking small and fragile in his crisp white shirt. Sitting on the floor right beside him, speaking in a low, soothing voice, was Clara Wells.
