Chapter 4 - Shadows of the Past
The silence that followed Damon’s confession was heavier than the winter storm howling outside the floor-to-ceiling windows.
Camila sat rigid in her chair, her heart hammering against her ribs. "You... you were lying to him?"
"I would have torn down this entire city before letting anyone touch a hair on your head," Damon said, his eyes burning into hers. "You thought I viewed my own children as weapons? Camila, when you vanished, I nearly burned Manhattan to the ground looking for you. I spent tens of millions of dollars. I put bounties on three continents. But you hid so well... you hid in the trash, in the mud, in the freezing cold, because you thought I was the devil."
"You are a devil, Damon!" Camila whispered fiercely, standing up from her chair, though her knees wobbled. "Look at what you do! Look at the blood on your hands! How was I supposed to know what was a lie and what was real?! You never let me into your world! You kept me in a golden cage, and when I looked out the window, all I saw was violence!"
Damon took a step back, as if her words were physical strikes. He looked down at his own hands—broad, powerful, calloused hands that had ordered executions, signed land grabs, and maintained a multi-billion-dollar criminal empire.
"You're right," Damon admitted quietly. The confession seemed to strip five years of arrogance from his shoulders. "I kept you in the dark to protect you. And by doing so, I drove you right into the night."
He looked at Mateo, who was fast asleep, his small chest rising and falling rhythmically. Then he looked at Luz, whose fevered cheeks were finally cooling under the medical drip.
"I can't undo the last five years," Damon said, his tone turning hard as flint, the mafia monarch returning behind his eyes. "I can't undo the cold nights you suffered, or the hunger my children felt. But hear me clearly, Camila: you will never, ever sleep on a cardboard box again. You will never beg for coins again. You are my wife. These are my children. And until my last breath, my entire fortune, my entire army, and my own life belong to you three."
Camila swallowed hard, her mouth dry. "We are not your property, Damon."
"You are my family!" he roared softly, curbing his volume at the last second. "And I am keeping you here where it is safe. Not as prisoners. As royalty. Try to run if you want, Camila. But every door in this building is guarded, every street is watched, and I will personally carry you back every single time."
He turned on his heel and walked out of the room, shutting the heavy mahogany door behind him with a quiet, decisive click.
Camila stood alone in the luxurious, warm room. She looked at her sleeping children, then down at her own filthy, torn coat.
A maid in a crisp black uniform tapped lightly on the door and stepped in, carrying a tray of steaming soup, fresh bread, and soft velvet robes.
"Mrs. Volkov," the maid said respectfully, bowing her head. "Mr. Volkov ordered a warm bath prepared for you in the adjoining suite. The clothes have been tailored to your size based on his instructions."
Camila looked at the hot food, smelling the rich broth. Her stomach grumbled painfully—a reminder of three days of starving so her children could eat scraps.
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She looked at her daughter’s calm, monitored breathing. She looked at her son’s peaceful face.
He thinks he can buy us back, Camila thought, stepping toward the warm bath. He thinks luxury can erase five years of pain. But Damon Volkov has no idea how hard I've learned to fight.
