Chapter 10
The sun began to set, casting long, dramatic shadows across the estate. The cinematic lighting shifted from bright afternoon white to the cool, deep blues of early evening.
Damon stood in the grand foyer, slipping a dark, tailored overcoat over his suit. His face was a mask of absolute, terrifying resolve. He had secured his children, fortified his home, and mobilized his army. The war for the city was no longer a looming threat; it was happening right now.
"The vehicles are loaded, Boss," Marcus reported, stepping through the front doors. "We have fifty men ready to move. The rest are securing the perimeter of the estate."
"Good," Damon said, pulling a pair of dark leather gloves onto his tattooed hands.
Before he could step out into the cool night air, the heavy brass doors of the estate burst open.
A single, bloodied man stumbled into the foyer, collapsing onto the marble floor. It was one of Damon’s perimeter guards. He was gasping for air, clutching a deep, bleeding wound on his shoulder.
"Boss," the guard wheezed, his fair skin pale and slick with sweat.
Damon crossed the room in two massive strides, dropping to one knee beside the wounded man. "Speak."
"It's not Sutton... at the downtown warehouse," the guard choked out, blood spilling from his lips. "It's a distraction. They didn't mobilize to hit the distribution centers."
Damon’s eyes narrowed into lethal slits. "Where are they?"
"They're here," the guard gasped, his eyes wide with terror. "Sutton brought his entire crew to the estate. They just breached the southern gate. They have heavy weapons, Boss. They're coming for the house."
The revelation struck the foyer like a thunderbolt. Sutton hadn't gone for the money or the territory. He had gone straight for the throat. He wanted Damon dead, and he wanted to slaughter the children who had humiliated his daughter.
"Lock down the house!" Elias roared, drawing his weapon as the sound of distant, automatic gunfire began to echo from the southern edge of the property.
Damon stood up slowly. The cold, intimidating aura surrounding him flared into a blinding, apocalyptic fury. His enemies were not miles away; they were walking on his grass, threatening the very blood he had sworn to protect just an hour ago.
"Marcus," Damon commanded, his deep voice slicing through the sudden chaos of the foyer. "Take five men. Go to the kitchen. Secure my sons in the underground panic room. If anyone who is not me tries to open that door, shoot them through the steel."
"Yes, Boss!" Marcus yelled, sprinting down the hallway.
Damon turned toward the front doors, drawing his suppressed pistol. He looked at the loyal capos standing beside him, their weapons raised and ready. The charming, romantic look of his wavy hair now framed the face of an absolute warlord.
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"They wanted a war," Damon whispered, his voice dropping into that terrifying, measured cadence as the sound of gunfire grew louder. "Let us show them. How the Roswell family fights."
He kicked the heavy front doors open, stepping out into the night to meet the invading army, ready to bathe his own gardens in blood to ensure his children saw tomorrow.
