Chapter 5
“Holding cells?!” Sabine shrieked, stumbling backward until her spine hit the carved walnut of a velvet dining chair. “You cannot be serious! Damon, you cannot lock me in a basement! I am Sabine Whitlock!”
The three enforcers moved with swift, silent precision. They crossed the cream marble floor, their dark suits blending into the elegant shadows at the edges of the room. They flanked Sabine, their large hands firmly gripping the delicate fabric of her champagne satin gown, entirely unbothered by her high-society status.
“Are you under the illusion that your last name provides immunity from my justice?” Damon asked, watching her struggle with a cold, unwavering stare.
“My father will kill you!” Sabine screamed, kicking her heels against the floorboards. “He will bring every gun he has to your gates! The Whitlock family will burn this mansion to the ground! You are starting a war over a maid, Damon! A war!”
“Do you honestly believe your father’s men can breach my gates?” Damon asked, crossing his arms over his broad chest. “Do you think I fear a family that raises a daughter devoid of a human soul?”
“Damon, please!” Sabine suddenly pivoted, begging as the enforcers began to drag her toward the service doors. “I’m sorry! I’ll buy her a new necklace! I’ll give her money! Just don’t do this!”
“Can your money buy back the ashes of a murdered boy, Sabine?” Damon asked, his voice dropping to a lethal whisper that silenced her instantly.
The heavy doors slammed shut behind the enforcers, cutting off Sabine’s frantic sobbing. The dining room was finally silent again, save for the crackling of the ivory candles in their ornate brass candelabras. The clear lighting continued to cast a soft elegant warmth over the room, an aesthetic that felt entirely incongruous with the violent shift in power that had just occurred.
Naomi stood frozen by the table, her hands clutching the white apron over her stomach. She looked up at Damon, her expressive eyes wide with terror and awe. She knew the political ramifications of what he had just done. The Whitlock alliance was the cornerstone of the city’s mafia peace treaty.
“Mr. Hartwell, what have you done?” Naomi whispered, her American accent trembling. “She’s right. They will kill you for this. Please, you have to let her go.”
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Damon turned his attention entirely to Naomi. The cold, ruthless mafia boss vanished, replaced by the man who shared quiet, unspoken affection with her in the lonely hours of the night.
“Would you have me bow to a family that thinks nothing of crushing your heart, Naomi?” Damon asked gently. “Shall we retire to my private study, away from this cold room?”
