Chapter 8 - The Final Reckoning
Downstairs, the gunshots had stopped.
By the time Damian, Lila, and I descended to the grand ballroom minutes later, the battle was entirely over.
Salvatore Maroni and his surviving enforcers were kneeling on the marble floor, their hands zip-tied behind their backs, surrounded by Damian’s loyal guards with drawn weapons.
Damian walked into the center of the room, looking like a king reclaiming his throne. He didn't shout. He didn't lose his temper. He simply stood before Salvatore, looking down at the traitor with absolute, chilling contempt.
"You wanted my empire, Salvatore," Damian said quietly. "You wanted my seat."
Salvatore spat blood onto the polished marble, glaring up with defiant hatred. "You're weak, Volkov! You let a nurse and a brat soften you! You're finished!"
Damian turned to Viktor. "Take Salvatore and his crew to the shipping yard in South Baltimore. Lock them in the lower containers and ship them off to our associates in South America. They can spend the rest of their natural lives breaking rocks in the Andes."
Salvatore’s face turned the color of ash. He opened his mouth to scream, but Damian’s guards hauled him to his feet, dragging him away toward the service exits as he cursed and thrashed.
Within minutes, the ballroom was cleared of blood, smoke, and traitors.
The heavy oak doors swung open, letting in the cool, clean breeze of the afternoon rainstorm washing over Baltimore.
Damian stood alone in the center of the vast, echoing room. The adrenaline that had fueled him through the firefight finally began to ebb, leaving behind the profound exhaustion of a man who had fought a war inside his own body and his own home.
He closed his eyes, pressing his fingers against the bridge of his nose.
Suddenly, a small, warm hand tugged at his suit trousers.
Damian opened his eyes, looking down.
Lila stood there, holding up her newly completed drawing—the one with the massive heart and Mr. Hoppers wearing a crown. She reached up, tapping her own chest, then pointing to his heart, and finally signing “Brave” with her small, clumsy fingers.
A slow, genuine smile—the first true smile I had ever seen touch his face—broke across Damian’s rugged features.
He dropped to one knee, ignoring the dirt and the blood on his trousers, and took the drawing from her hands.
"Brave," Damian repeated slowly in sign language, his fingers forming the awkward shape just as she had taught him over the past two weeks.
May you like
Lila beamed, throwing her arms around his neck in a sudden, fierce hug.
Damian froze for a fraction of a second, as if unsure how to receive such pure, unearned affection. Then, slowly, his massive arms came around her, holding her carefully, protectively, against his heart.
