Chapter 8
The sprawling interior of the Roswell estate was a masterclass in modern luxury. The wide corridors were lined with expensive art, bathed in crisp, natural light from the massive skylights. Damon walked purposefully through the halls, the heavy burden of the afternoon's events settling squarely on his broad shoulders. He had dismantled Brielle and severed a major political alliance, a move that would undoubtedly cause ripples throughout the criminal underworld.
But as he approached the heavy oak doors of the children’s wing, the veteran Mafia boss disappeared, entirely replaced by a deeply concerned father.
He opened the doors to find the expansive playroom bathed in warm, bright colors. The two adult bodyguards were stationed discreetly near the exits, their professional suits a stark contrast to the plush toys and colorful rugs. Six-year-old Micah and three-year-old Caleb were sitting on a large sofa. They had been washed and changed into fresh, comfortable clothes. Their fair, rosy skin was clean, but their eyes still held the residual trauma of the afternoon.
"Daddy!" Caleb yelled, scrambling off the sofa and running across the room on his small, sneakered feet.
Damon dropped to one knee, catching his youngest son and lifting him securely into his arms. He stood up, burying his face in the child's soft hair, inhaling the innocent scent of him.
"I've got you, buddy," Damon murmured, his deep voice thick with emotion. He walked over to the sofa and sat down right next to Micah.
Micah looked up at his father, his blue eyes wide and hesitant. "Is she gone, Dad? Brielle?"
"She is packing her bags right now, Micah," Damon promised, wrapping his free arm around his older son and pulling him close against his tailored suit. "She is leaving, and she is never, ever coming back to this house. I swear it to you."
"She said we had to be tough," Micah whispered, his voice trembling as he looked down at his hands. "She said if we cried, you would be ashamed of us."
A fresh wave of cold, protective fury washed over Damon, but he kept his expression calm and warm for his sons.
"Listen to me, both of you," Damon said, ensuring his American accent was clear and comforting. He looked directly into their eyes. "There is nothing wrong with being scared. And there is nothing wrong with crying. Being tough doesn't mean letting people hurt you. It means protecting the people you love. Do you understand?"
"I didn't want to hit Micah," Caleb cried softly, resting his head against Damon’s chest. "She made it dark. I didn't know."
"I know you didn't, Caleb," Damon reassured him, kissing the top of his head. "It wasn't your fault. None of this was your fault. You are my sons, and from now on, no one is ever going to force you to play games like that again."
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The heavy oak doors of the playroom opened quietly. Marcus, Damon’s second-in-command and most trusted Capo, stepped into the bright room. He wore a sharp, dark suit, his fair face serious and guarded.
"Boss," Marcus said, his voice low. "We need to talk. The Sutton family has responded."
