Vanessa vile enough to strike an expectant woman across the face at her mother’s resting place and grind a cherished heirloom into the mud just to flaunt her aristocratic malice

The weight of Damon’s words hung in the crisp, bright air like an executioner's blade. Vanessa fumbled frantically in the pockets of her ivory designer coat, her hands shaking so violently she could barely retrieve her phone. Her fair, rosy skin had drained of all color, leaving her looking like a porcelain corpse amidst the crushed memorial flowers.

Damon did not wait for her to make the call. He turned his attention back to Grace. He reached down with both hands and gently, effortlessly lifted the pregnant woman from the muddy ground.

"I've got you," Damon murmured, his deep voice softening entirely for her ears only. "You are safe now, Grace."

"They're going to kill me, Damon," Grace sobbed, clinging to the lapels of his heavy black overcoat. "Senator Caldwell owns the police. He owns the judges."

"He does not own me," Damon replied, his jaw locking into a rigid line.

He turned his head slightly, signaling his men. The two adult Cross bodyguards immediately stepped forward from the path, their professional dark suits immaculate.

"Secure the perimeter. Bring the car around to this path," Damon ordered smoothly. "We are leaving."

"Yes, Boss," the lead bodyguard said, tapping his earpiece and moving rapidly toward the cemetery entrance.

Marcus let out a pathetic, wet cough from the wreckage of the groundskeeping trolley. He tried to push himself up on his elbows, blood streaming freely from his shattered nose. "You're a dead man, Cross. My father will have you buried under federal indictments by morning."

Damon stopped. He held Grace securely against his side and looked down at the bleeding politician's son. The cinematic lighting caught the cold, merciless glint in the Mafia Boss's eye.

"Indictments require witnesses, Marcus," Damon stated, his American accent perfectly measured. "And after tonight, there won't be a Caldwell left alive to testify. Tell the Senator to hire better guards."

Damon guided Grace away from the carnage, his polished leather shoes crunching methodically against the stone path. A sleek, armored black SUV pulled smoothly onto the cemetery walkway, its dark windows reflecting the bright, vivid greens of the lawn.

The bodyguard opened the rear door. Damon gently helped Grace inside, ensuring her muddy uniform and apron didn't snag on the frame. He climbed in beside her, the heavy, armored door slamming shut with a definitive, metallic thud.

"Take us to the penthouse," Damon ordered the driver.

As the SUV accelerated out of the cemetery, Grace leaned her head back against the plush leather seat, finally allowing herself to breathe. Damon reached over, taking her trembling hand in his. He looked at her swollen belly, the reality of his impending fatherhood mixing violently with the bloodlust of the war he had just declared.