Chapter 4 - THE KING’S EMBRACE
Damian’s knees hit the wet sand right in front of Clara.
The impact was heavy.
A man who had never bowed to anyone in the criminal underworld was on his knees in the mud.
His hands reached out, shaking violently.
He touched Oliver’s warm, wet cheek.
Then Owen’s chest.
He felt the frantic, steady thrum of their heartbeats against Clara’s skin.
A harsh, shuddering breath tore from Damian’s throat.
It sounded almost like a sob, choked off before it could form.
“They’re breathing,” Damian whispered, his voice cracking.
“They’re unharmed, Mr. Costello,” Clara said.
Her teeth were chattering uncontrollably.
Her arms were locked so tight around the babies that her fingers had gone completely white.
“I kept them under my coat.”
Damian looked up from his sons to Clara’s face.
His gray eyes were wide, dark, and burning with a terrifying intensity.
He saw the blister on her shoulder where the falling ember had burned through her uniform.
He saw the blood dripping from her bare feet onto the wet sand.
He saw the black soot coating her cheeks and the raw determination in her jaw.
“You,” he murmured, his voice thick with an emotion he could not name.
Without another word, Damian stripped off his heavy cashmere sweater.
He wrapped it securely around Clara and both boys, pulling them against his chest.
The warmth of his body was overwhelming.
He smelled of rain, expensive tobacco, and pure, lethal adrenaline.
His arms enveloped all three of them like iron bands.
For five seconds, Clara let her head fall against his broad shoulder.
The sheer exhaustion of the night threatened to pull her under.
Then a scream tore across the beach.
Victoria stood on the dock, her face twisted in pure, ugly venom.
“She stole them!” Victoria shrieked, pointing a manic finger at Clara.
“That stupid little maid took my babies!”
Damian’s body went completely rigid against Clara’s back.
He stood up slowly.
He scooped both boys into his left arm with practiced, effortless strength.
With his right hand, he caught Clara by the waist before her trembling knees could buckle.
He held her upright against his side.
He turned toward the dock.
The grief on Damian’s face had vanished.
In its place was a cold, terrifying mask of death.
“Vito,” Damian called out.
His lead enforcer stepped forward from the shadow of the cliff.
“Boss?”
“Take the boys to the armored Suburban,” Damian ordered, handing the twins to Vito.
“Get the medical team to inspect them immediately.”
“Yes, sir.”
Clara moved to follow the children.
Her maternal instinct screamed at her not to let them out of her sight.
A large, warm hand caught her wrist.
Damian held her in place.
“Stay beside me, Clara,” he commanded softly.
His grip was not painful, but it was unbreakable.
He led her toward the dock where Victoria was scrambling to gather her fallen diamonds.
Briggs lay in the sand, groaning, clutching his bleeding shoulder.
Damian stopped three feet from his wife.
The rain beat down on them in furious torrents.
“You left them in their cribs,” Damian said.
His voice was dead.
Devoid of any human warmth.
“I had to get help, Damian!” Victoria cried, clutching a velvet box to her breast.
“The gunmen were everywhere! I was trying to save our family!”
Clara stepped forward, her voice cutting through the wind like a razor:
“You said they would slow you down.”
Victoria froze.
Her eyes snapped to Clara with venomous hatred.
“You shut your filthy mouth, you peasant!” Victoria snarled.
“You said Damian could have more children,” Clara continued, holding Victoria’s vicious glare.
“You zipped your diamonds into your duffel bag while Oliver screamed upstairs.”
Damian looked at the leather bag at Victoria’s feet.
He kicked it with the toe of his leather boot.
The zipper burst open.
Passports, stacks of bundled hundred-dollar bills, and bearer bonds spilled into the wet sand.
And among the cash was a burner satellite phone.
Its screen was still glowing.
A recent outgoing call was logged: SALVATORE RUSSO — 00:14.
Damian picked up the phone.
He read the screen.
A terrible, quiet smile touched his lips.
“You sold the security codes to Russo,” Damian said.
“No, Damian! He threatened me!”
“You gave him the layout of the nursery.”
Damian stepped closer.
Victoria backed away until her heels hit the edge of the wooden dock.
Behind her, the dark Atlantic waves crashed against the pilings.
“You wanted my sons dead so Salvatore could claim the northern territory,” Damian whispered.
“And you wanted thirty million dollars to disappear to the south of France.”
“Damian, please!” Victoria fell to her knees, clutching his trouser leg.
“I’m your wife!”
Damian looked down at her as if she were a cockroach beneath his shoe.
He pulled his leg away, letting her face hit the wet wood.
“You were never my wife,” Damian said coldly.
“You were an alliance my father forced upon me.”
He turned to his men.
“Put her in the cellar at the safehouse.”
“No!” Victoria screamed, fighting wildly as two enforcers hauled her to her feet.
“You can’t do this to me! I’m a Marino!”
“The Marinos will receive your severed finger by noon tomorrow,” Damian said without looking back.
“Along with a declaration of total war.”
The men dragged Victoria away, her screams swallowed by the wind.
Damian turned back to Clara.
He took off his dark wool overcoat and placed it gently over her shivering shoulders.
“Come,” he said.
“Mr. Costello,” Clara said, stepping back toward the beach path.
“My shift is over. I need to take the bus to Providence. My mother is in the hospital.”
Damian’s gray eyes locked onto hers.
The intensity in his gaze made her breath catch in her throat.
“You are not taking the bus anywhere, Clara.”
“I have to see my mother—”
“Your mother will have the finest doctors in New England by sunrise,” Damian said softly.
He reached out and took her bruised, soot-stained hand in his.
“As for you, Clara Hayes...”
His fingers tightened around hers with quiet, absolute possession.
May you like
“You just saved the heirs to the Costello empire.”
“You are never leaving my sight again.”
