Chapter 7 - SHADOWS IN THE PENTHOUSE
Midnight settled over Boston like a shroud of black velvet.
The penthouse was unnervingly quiet.
Forty armed men had left with Damian two hours ago, descending into the dark streets to wage war against the Marino family.
Clara sat on the floor of the private library, rocking Owen in her arms while Oliver slept in a portable bassinet beside her knee.
She couldn't sleep.
Every shadow outside the tall windows looked like a sniper.
Every creak of the building’s steel joints sounded like an explosive charge.
The library doors clicked open.
Clara scrambled to her feet, shielding the baby with her body.
Damian walked into the room.
He looked exhausted.
A dark cut ran along his left cheekbone, bleeding sluggishly into his collar.
His shirt was torn at the shoulder, revealing smooth, heavily muscled skin and an old silver scar across his collarbone.
He tossed a heavy titanium briefcase onto the mahogany desk.
It landed with a dull, metallic thud.
“It’s done,” Damian said.
His voice was hoarse.
He poured three fingers of scotch into a crystal glass and drank it in one long, burning swallow.
“Did you... kill them?” Clara asked, her voice barely louder than a whisper.
Damian set the glass down with a soft click.
He turned to face her.
“Carlo Marino is on a cargo freighter bound for Sicily,” Damian said coldly.
“Without a passport. Without a dollar. If he ever touches American soil again, my men will feed him to the harbor fish.”
He walked across the Persian rug toward her.
He stopped an arm’s length away, looking down at his son sleeping in her arms.
“And Victoria?” Clara asked, her throat tight.
“Victoria signed the dissolution papers,” Damian said.
He reached into his pocket and drew out a folded piece of paper bearing official court seals.
“She surrendered all maternal rights. All claims to the Costello estate.”
He looked up, his gray eyes pinning Clara in place.
“She is dead to this family, Clara.”
“Forever.”
Owen stirred in Clara’s arms, letting out a small, sleepy sigh.
Damian reached out.
His fingertips were warm as they brushed against the baby’s soft cheek.
Then his hand drifted downward.
His knuckles grazed the delicate curve of Clara’s neck, lingering over the rapid pulse beating beneath her skin.
Clara’s breath caught.
Her heart fluttered wildly against her ribs.
She should have stepped back.
She should have remembered the blood on his hands.
She should have remembered that he was a ruthless syndicate don and she was a penniless maid from Rhode Island.
But she couldn't move.
The sheer, raw magnetism of the man held her paralyzed.
“You’re trembling,” Damian murmured, his voice dipping into that dangerous, intimate register.
“You’re dangerous, Mr. Costello,” Clara whispered honestly.
A faint, self-deprecating smile touched his lips.
“I know.”
He took Owen gently from her arms, carrying the baby to the bassinet beside his brother.
He laid his son down with the tenderness of a man handling spun glass.
He pulled the soft white blanket over both boys, watching them breathe for a long, quiet moment.
When he turned back to Clara, the cold mob boss was gone.
Only a lonely, haunted man remained.
“Twelve years ago,” Damian said, staring into the dark glass of the window,
“my father arranged my marriage to Victoria Marino.”
Clara remained silent, listening to the cadence of his voice.
“It was a business merger,” Damian continued, his hands shoved into his trouser pockets.
“I was twenty-two. She was nineteen.”
He looked at Clara over his shoulder.
“We hated each other from the first week.”
“She wanted the glamour of the Costello name. The limousines. The penthouses in Manhattan.”
“She never wanted children,” Clara said softly.
“She despised them,” Damian admitted, his jaw tightening.
“When she found out she was pregnant with twins, she tried to terminate the pregnancy twice.”
Clara gasped, her hand flying to her chest.
“I had to place armed guards outside her bedroom for seven months just to ensure my sons were born alive,” Damian whispered.
The horror of his words hung in the warm air of the library.
Clara looked at the two innocent babies sleeping in the bassinet.
She felt a wave of fierce, overwhelming protectiveness wash through her veins.
“How could any mother hate her own blood?” Clara whispered, tears stinging her eyes.
Damian walked back to her.
He stopped so close she could feel the heat radiating from his chest.
He reached out and cupped both sides of her face with his large, calloused hands.
His thumbs wiped the unshed tears from the corners of her eyes.
“You’re not like her, Clara,” Damian said, his voice thick with reverence.
“You ran into an inferno for children that weren't even yours.”
“They are my babies in my heart, Damian,” Clara confessed before she could stop herself.
The use of his first name hung in the air between them like a dropped match.
Damian’s eyes darkened with raw, possessive hunger.
His fingers tangled into her dark hair, tilting her face up toward his.
“Say it again,” he commanded in a low, ragged rasp.
“Damian,” she breathed.
He leaned down.
His lips hovered a fraction of an inch above hers.
She could taste the whiskey on his breath.
She could feel the erratic, heavy thunder of his heartbeat against her collarbone.
Every nerve in her body screamed for him to close the distance.
Suddenly, the red emergency strobe light on the library wall began to flash.
A high-pitched klaxon wailed through the penthouse ceiling speakers.
Damian’s body snapped into combat mode in a microsecond.
He shoved Clara behind his back, drawing a black semi-automatic pistol from his small-of-back holster.
Marco burst into the library, his assault rifle raised.
“Boss! The perimeter sensors on the forty-first floor just went dark!”
“Who is it?” Damian barked.
“Salvatore Russo’s private hit squad,” Marco shouted over the sirens.
“They didn't come through the lobby!”
May you like
Marco pointed toward the massive glass terrace overlooking the harbor.
“They just fast-roped onto the balcony from a blacked-out helicopter!”
