Chapter 14
The attempted assassination by the mercenaries completely shattered any remaining pretense of civility between the Roswell syndicate and the Sutton political dynasty. It was no longer a shadow war; it was an absolute struggle for survival.
Damon returned to the main level of the mansion, shedding his suit jacket. He walked directly to the children's wing. The heavy oak doors were guarded by four armed men, who parted instantly for their Boss.
Inside the bright, vividly colored playroom, Micah and Caleb were fast asleep on a large, plush sofa. Maria, the dedicated nanny, was sitting nearby, keeping a vigilant watch.
"They slept through the noise, Mr. Roswell," Maria whispered, her fair face pale but resolute.
"Good," Damon murmured, stepping softly into the room. He knelt by the sofa, gently brushing a lock of hair from Caleb's forehead. The rosy flush on the three-year-old's cheeks was peaceful. Damon felt a profound, heavy satisfaction. He had protected his bloodline.
"Marcus," Damon called quietly, stepping back into the hallway.
The Capo approached, wiping a speck of blood from his crisp white shirt. "Yes, Boss?"
"Sutton thinks his mercenary strike force is currently dismantling my home," Damon stated, his dark eyes burning with an icy, unforgiving fire. "He will be waiting for confirmation. I want to give him his confirmation."
"We hit his compound tonight?" Marcus asked, ready to mobilize the strike teams.
"No," Damon replied, a cold, calculating smile touching his lips. "Sutton expects a physical retaliation. He has an army of state police protecting his estate. We do not fight an entrenched enemy. We strip him of his armor."
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"How do we do that?"
"By morning, the entire city will know that a federal judge hired an international mercenary hit squad," Damon explained, his voice a low, terrifying rumble. "Release the ledgers. Release the audio recordings of his intermediary hiring the strike team. Send everything to the press, the FBI, and the rival political factions."
