Chapter 6 - The Uninvited Guest
The voice that came through the secure intercom speaker was not that of Marcus or any of Damon’s station guards. It was smooth, cultured, and laced with an infuriatingly familiar arrogance.
"Good evening, Damon. I trust I’m not interrupting your domestic tranquility."
Damon’s jaw tightened so hard a muscle ticked in his cheek. He stood up from the bed slowly, his hand resting instinctively near the holster concealed beneath his sweater.
"Victor," Damon said, his voice dropping an octave. "You have considerable nerve showing your face within five hundred miles of my property."
"Oh, come now, cousin," Victor Moretti’s voice purred through the speaker. "Is that any way to greet family? Especially when I come bearing news that concerns your new... housekeeping arrangement."
My breath caught in my throat. Moretti.
The name echoed in my mind like a gunshot. The Moretti syndicate—the very family whose offshore wire transfers had helped sink Senator Caldwell, and Damon’s most ruthless, violent rivals for control of the Boston shipping lanes.
"State your business or get off my frequency," Damon commanded, stepping toward the window to look out across the snow-covered grounds toward the security gates.
"My business is quite simple," Victor replied, his tone turning cold and businesslike. "Word travels fast in Boston, Damon. Everyone knows you've locked yourself away in Blackwood Manor over a pregnant maid from a catering agency. They think you've gone soft. They think the great Damon Cross has finally found a weakness."
"If you think she's a weakness, Victor, come inside the gates and test that theory," Damon challenged, his voice dangerously low. "Let's see how many of your men walk back out of the snow."
"I didn't come to start a war tonight," Victor laughed lightly. "I came to offer a trade. You see, one of my captains has been asking questions about the girl's background. Did you know her mother wasn't just a quiet nurse in hospice, Damon? Ruth Harper had a rather interesting stack of financial records before she died—records involving a very delicate embezzlement scandal tied directly to your father’s estate twenty-five years ago."
I felt the blood drain entirely from my face.
My mother? Embezzlement? Tied to Damon’s father?
It was a lie. It had to be a lie. My mother had worked eighty-hour weeks her entire life, dying with less than a thousand dollars in her bank account.
Damon didn't react to the provocation immediately. But the air in the room grew so heavy and dense that it was difficult to breathe.
"If you have documents, Victor, bring them to the gate," Damon said smoothly, though his eyes were burning with cold fury. "Let's see if you survive the presentation."
"Oh, I won't be bringing them to the gate," Victor chuckled. "I’ll be sending them to every federal prosecutor and investigative journalist in the Northeast by midnight unless you agree to relinquish control of the South Boston docks by Friday noon. Think about it, cousin. Do you want your child's mother dragged through a public federal trial for her family's dirty laundry?"
Click.
The line went dead.
Damon stood motionless by the window for several long seconds. The silence in the master suite was deafening, broken only by the crackle of the fireplace.
Slowly, he turned around and looked at me.
I was sitting upright in the bed, my hands trembling as I clutched the blanket. The panic that had been beaten down at the cemetery suddenly surged back, cold and sharp.
"Damon... it’s not true," I whispered, tears spilling over my lashes. "My mother... she never stole anything in her life. We had nothing! We lived in a cramped apartment because she couldn't even afford medical insurance—"
"I know," Damon interrupted, crossing the room in three long strides and sitting down on the bed beside me. He took my trembling hands in his, his grip firm, warm, and absolute. "I know your mother, Sarah. I know who you are."
"Moretti is lying," I choked out. "He's using me to get to you. He wants the docks."
"Victor wants a war," Damon corrected quietly, his eyes dark and calculating. "And for twenty-five years, people have tried to use my family’s history as a weapon against me. They think secrets are leverage."
He reached out, wiping a tear from my cheek with his thumb.
"Are you going to give him the docks?" I asked, my voice breaking.
May you like
Damon let out a cold, humorless smile.
"Victor Moretti thinks he’s playing chess," Damon said softly. "He doesn't realize I’ve owned the board since the day my father died. He wants to dig up ghosts from twenty-five years ago? Fine. Let's open the graves."
