Chapter 8
The private penthouse of the Cross syndicate was a fortress in the sky. The floor-to-ceiling windows allowed the bright, natural daylight to flood the massive living space, highlighting the sharp, modern, expensive decor. There was no yellow tint in the glass; the city below looked crisp and terrifyingly clear.
Damon led Grace into the pristine bathroom. He took a warm, damp cloth and carefully, gently wiped the dried blood from her lip and the mud from her fair, rosy cheeks. The terrifying Mafia Boss moved with a surprising, practiced tenderness, his dark three-piece suit contrasting sharply with her soiled black maid uniform.
"You thought I would trap you," Damon concluded, breaking the heavy silence as he cleaned her face.
"You rule this city through fear," Grace replied, her voice steadying as she looked up into his penetrating eyes. "I was just a housemaid working at your estate. That night... it was a mistake. I knew if you found out I was pregnant, you would lock me away to protect your bloodline. I wanted to be free."
"So you ran to the Caldwell estate for work," Damon deduced, his jaw clenching as he tossed the bloody cloth into the sink. "To hide in the shadow of my greatest political enemy."
"It was the only place your men couldn't search," Grace admitted, gripping the edge of the marble vanity. "But then Marcus started watching me. He cornered me in the laundry room last week. When I fought him off, he panicked. He told his sister I was trying to extort them, claiming the baby was his."
Damon’s hands gripped the edge of the marble sink so hard his knuckles turned white. The thought of Marcus laying a hand on her ignited an inferno in his chest that would only be quenched by ashes.
"He will die screaming for that," Damon promised, his voice a low, lethal vibration.
"Damon, you can't fight a sitting US Senator," Grace pleaded, placing her hand gently over his. "He has the entire federal task force on his payroll. If you go to war with Caldwell, he will burn your syndicate to the ground."
"I am the one who brings the fire, Grace," Damon said, turning to face her fully. His deeply masculine, intimidating presence filled the room. "You are carrying the heir to the Cross family. You will never scrub another floor. You will never hide in fear again. This city belongs to you now."
Before Grace could argue, the heavy oak door of the master bedroom swung open. Damon’s lead enforcer, a scarred man named Silas, stepped into the room, his dark suit perfectly pressed.
"Boss," Silas reported, his American accent tight with urgency. "We have a massive problem."
"Speak," Damon commanded.
"Senator Caldwell just went on live television," Silas said grimly. "He claims a known organized crime leader viciously assaulted his children at a cemetery. He has declared a state of emergency and mobilized the federal tactical units. They have warrants for your arrest, and they are freezing every known front company we operate."
May you like
Damon’s eyes darkened into a freezing, absolute void. The Senator had moved faster than anticipated, using his political leverage to legitimize a hit on the mafia.
"Let them freeze the fronts," Damon ordered, walking briskly past Silas into the main penthouse living room. "We don't need clean money for what comes next."
