Chapter 8
"Where is my daughter, Whitestone?" Victor demanded, his voice echoing loudly in the cold space of the foyer. "You cannot hold a Reed hostage in your own home!"
Grant stopped on the final step, towering over the older capo. His cold, perceptive eyes analyzed Victor with clinical detachment, showing absolutely zero fear in the face of the angry patriarch.
"Do you believe you give orders in my home, Victor?" Grant asked, his deep voice a low, terrifying rumble that seemed to shake the marble floors.
"Release Camilla right now, or the alliance is dead, and we go to war," Victor spat, taking a step forward before Marcus’s massive hand slammed into his chest, stopping him dead in his tracks.
"Are you willing to die for a woman who tortures children and freezes defenseless animals?" Grant asked, his jaw settling into a sharp, uncompromising line.
Victor sneered, trying to maintain his bravado in front of his own men standing outside. "She was just securing her future! You are soft, Grant! You are letting a crying child and a maid dictate the politics of the entire eastern seaboard!"
"Do you consider the premeditated abuse of my family to be mere politics?" Grant inquired, stepping off the stairs and closing the distance between them until he was mere inches from Victor’s face.
"It's business!" Victor shouted, spit flying from his lips. "And right now, business dictates that you hand her over before I burn this place down!"
"Shall we see how much your business is worth when it is buried in ashes?" Grant asked softly.
He didn't wait for Victor to draw a weapon. Grant moved with blinding speed, his tattooed hand closing like a steel vice around Victor's throat, lifting the older capo several inches off the floor.
"Did you think I would let you leave this house alive after what your blood tried to do to mine?" Grant asked, his eyes burning with absolute, murderous intent.
The sound of weapons cocking echoed through the foyer, signaling the beginning of a bloody, uncompromising war. Grant threw the older man backward, drawing his own suppressed weapon in a single, fluid motion as the grand foyer erupted into deafening violence. The marble shattered around them as the Reed enforcers opened fire, returning the deadly barrage from the Whitestone syndicate.
Upstairs, the sounds of the battle were muffled but unmistakably terrifying. Sylvie sat on the floor of the nursery, her back pressed against the heavy oak door. She held a heavy brass candlestick she had taken from the mantle, her knuckles white. Nora remained fast asleep, entirely exhausted, completely oblivious to the fact that an army of mafia hitmen were trying to burn her house down. Teddy whined softly in his sleep, dreaming of warmth.
Suddenly, the heavy brass handle of the bedroom door rattled violently.
Sylvie gasped, scrambling backward, raising the heavy brass candlestick above her head. "Who is it?" she cried out, her voice shaking with adrenaline.
"Are you unharmed, Sylvie?" Grant's deep, unmistakable voice filtered through the heavy wood.
May you like
Sylvie sobbed in relief, immediately throwing the deadbolt and pulling the heavy oak door open.
Grant stepped into the room. He looked like a god of war. His crisp white shirt was stained with soot, the sleeves rolled up to reveal his muscular, tattooed arms. The extremely short stubble on his jawline was dark with ash, and a nasty cut ran across his high-bridged nose. Yet, his posture remained unbowed, and his cold, perceptive eyes swept the room instantly, finding her in the dim light.
