Chapter 13 - THE DON’S CONFESSION
The private suite at the Manhattan penthouse was peaceful.
Outside, the autumn afternoon sunlight reflected golden off the East River.
Oliver and Owen were fast asleep in a wide mahogany cradle in the nursery wing, guarded by two trusted enforcers who would have died before letting a fly near the door.
Clara stood on the private terrace overlooking the city skyline.
The wind played with the loose tendrils of her hair.
She had changed back into a simple cream wool sweater and dark denim trousers.
She held a cup of hot chamomile tea between her palms, watching the tugboats cut through the water far below.
The nightmare was over.
The trials were set.
The enemies were buried.
And yet, her chest felt tighter than it had during the gunfire.
Footsteps echoed softly on the stone terrace tiles.
Damian walked out.
He had removed his jacket and tie, unbuttoning his dark gray dress shirt at the throat.
The fierce, terrifying mob boss from the ballroom was nowhere to be seen.
He looked young.
He looked human.
He walked over to the stone balustrade, resting his elbows on the ledge beside her.
He looked out over Manhattan for a long, quiet minute.
“You were magnificent today, Clara,” Damian said softly.
“I was terrified, Damian,” she admitted honestly, a faint smile touching her lips.
“Nobody could tell,” he said, turning his head to look at her.
“Even Falcone was intimidated by you.”
Clara took a slow sip of her tea, looking down into the dark amber liquid.
“Damian,” she whispered.
“Yes?”
“What you said in the ballroom... about me being the future mistress of the empire.”
Her fingers tightened around the porcelain mug.
“You didn't have to say that to protect me.”
Damian went completely still.
“You think I said that for protection?”
“I know how this world works,” Clara said gently, looking up at him with clear, honest eyes.
“Alliances. Politics. Status. You needed to show the council that your house was stable.”
She looked away, swallowing against a sudden lump in her throat.
“I’m a maid from Providence, Damian. My father was an electrician. My mother is living on dialysis.”
“I don’t belong in ballrooms with senators and crime bosses.”
Damian stepped closer.
He reached out and gently took the teacup from her hands, setting it on the stone ledge.
Then he placed both of his large, warm hands on either side of her face.
He tilted her chin up until her eyes were forced to meet his intense, burning gray gaze.
“Look at me, Clara,” he commanded softly.
She looked at him.
His eyes were filled with an emotion so deep, so profound, it made her knees tremble.
“I spent ten years living in a house full of blood, greed, and hollow lies,” Damian whispered.
His thumbs traced the soft line of her cheekbones.
“Victoria had status. She had family connections. She had millions of dollars.”
“And she left my sons to burn for thirty pieces of silver.”
He leaned closer, his forehead resting gently against hers.
“You had nothing, Clara.”
“You had twelve dollars an hour and a mother who needed medicine.”
“And you threw your body over my sons without hesitating for a single second.”
A tear slipped from Clara’s lash, rolling warm over his thumb.
“I don’t care about bloodlines, Clara,” Damian murmured, his voice thick with raw devotion.
“I don’t care about status.”
“I care that when my world was on fire, you were the only thing that was real.”
“Damian...” she choked out.
“I fell in love with you the second I saw you walk out of the dark on that beach,” Damian confessed.
His voice broke slightly.
“I love the way you smell like lavender and clean soap.”
“I love the way Oliver stops crying the moment you hold him against your chest.”
“I love the way you looked into the eyes of four mafia dons and never flinched.”
He pulled her against his chest, wrapping his arms around her waist with quiet, desperate strength.
“I’m not keeping you here because of a debt, Clara,” Damian whispered into her hair.
“I’m keeping you here because I can’t breathe in this world without you.”
Clara let out a long, ragged sob, burying her face in the crook of his neck.
Her arms wrapped around his shoulders, holding him as tightly as she could.
“I love you too, Damian,” she wept against his warm skin.
“God help me, I love you so much.”
Damian lifted her off her feet, his mouth crashing down onto hers in a fierce, breathless, triumphant kiss.
The autumn wind swirled around them on the terrace sixty stories in the sky.
The shadows were gone.
May you like
The debt was paid.
And love had finally claimed its throne.
