Chapter 9 - The Final Reckoning
While the penthouse above glowed with warmth and quiet passion, the criminal underworld of New York was boiling over.
Word had spread through the docks and back alleys that Damien Ashworth had locked himself away in his fortress, distracted by a nameless Brooklyn clinic girl. To his rivals, distraction looked like weakness.
It was Sunday afternoon when Marcus strode into the private study where Damien and Briar were reviewing architectural blueprints for her new veterinary clinic.
“Boss,” Marcus said, his face carved in stone. “We have a situation down at pier fourteen. Viktor Vance’s men are moving cargo through our territory without authorization. They think you’re soft.”
Damien didn't look up from the blueprints immediately. He traced a line with his finger, his jaw tightening into a hard, dangerous line. Then, he stood up slowly, smoothing down his cuffs.
“Tell Vance I’ll be there in twenty minutes,” Damien said coldly.
Briar stood up from her chair, her brow furrowing with sudden anxiety. “You’re going down there yourself?”
“Viktor needs a reminder of whose city this really is,” Damien replied, turning to her with a look of absolute reassurance. “Stay here. With Brutus and the detail. I’ll be back before dinner.”
“Damien—"
“Trust me,” he interrupted softly, pressing a quick kiss to her forehead before walking out the door.
Two hours passed.
The snowstorm had cleared, leaving the city wrapped in a blinding, pristine white blanket. Briar paced the length of the living room, her instincts screaming that something was wrong. Brutus paced right beside her, letting out low, restless whines.
Suddenly, the private elevator chimed.
Ding.
Briar spun around, expecting Damien to step out with his usual composed authority.
Instead, the doors slid open to reveal a horrifying scene.
Two of Damien’s enforcers stumbled out of the elevator, bleeding heavily from their shoulders, clutching their sides. Behind them stood Viktor Vance—a scarred, heavy-set mobster holding a silver-plated automatic pistol pressed firmly against the temple of a bound and gagged hostage.
No—not a hostage.
Damien Ashworth.
Damien’s white shirt was stained with dark blood across his left shoulder, his hands zip-tied behind his back, his face bruised and pale from blood loss. Yet, as his gray eyes locked onto Briar across the room, there was no fear in them—only a terrifying, silent warning.
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“Well, well, well,” Viktor Vance laughed, a wet, ugly sound as he shoved Damien forward onto his knees on the marble floor. “Look at the invincible Damien Ashworth. Brought low by a stray dog and a stray girl.”
Briar’s heart stopped. The world narrowed down to a single point of absolute, blinding rage.
