Chapter 3 - The Broken VerdictI didn't look back. I descended the slippery iron stairs of the fire escape as fast as my trembling legs could carry me, the snow blinding my vision. I dropped the last six feet into a snowdrift in the dark alleyway behind the building, gasping as the freezing powder swallowed my boots.
I sprinted toward the end of the alley, aiming for the subway station two blocks away. If I could get onto the N-train, I could disappear into the city’s underground veins before his men could track my phone—which I had wisely left spinning on my kitchen counter.
But I had underestimated the reach of the most dangerous man in New York.
As I burst out of the alley onto the main avenue, a figure stepped out from the white curtain of the blizzard, blocking my path. It was Marco, Damen’s right-hand man and chief of security. His face was grim, his coat dusted with snow.
"Miss Clare," Marco said, his voice level but carrying a deep, unspoken warning. "Don't run. The boss is behind you, and he hasn't slept since you left the hotel."
I spun around, my boots slipping on the black ice.
Damen was walking out of the alleyway. The wind tore at his open coat, revealing his white tuxedo shirt, stained at the collar with melted snow. His face was a mask of unadulterated fury, but beneath that fury, for the very first time since I had known him, I saw a flicker of raw, unvarnished desperation.
In his large, leather-gloved hand, he was holding something small. Something wrapped in a transparent plastic evidence bag.
My stomach dropped. It was the pieces of the pregnancy test.
"Did you really think my people wouldn't sweep the hotel after you vanished, Clare?" Damen’s voice was low, vibrating with a terrifying intensity that seemed to silence the howling wind around us. He stepped closer, his heavy footsteps crunching in the fresh snow. "A janitor found these in the VIP restroom stall. My forensic team taped them back together within twenty minutes."
He stopped just three feet from me, his ice-blue eyes burning into mine. He raised the plastic bag.
"Two pink lines, Clare. You were going to run away with my child."
"It's my child!" I screamed back, my voice cracking as tears finally broke through, freezing instantly on my cheeks. "You don't get to have everything, Damen! You have your skyscrapers, your shipping lines, and your perfect, high-society women! You don't get to take my baby and raise them in a fortress of guns and blood!"
"Your baby?" Damen hissed, stepping into my personal space, his towering six-foot-three frame completely blocking out the rest of the world. He grabbed my gloved hands, his grip incredibly tight but careful not to hurt me. "It is our baby, Clare. And if you think I am letting you walk away into a freezing New York night carrying my blood, you don't know me at all."
"I saw you!" I shrieked, trying to wrench my hands free, but he was an immovable wall. "I saw you at the gala! The woman in the silver gown—she touched your tie, and you kissed her! You belong to that world, Damen! Go back to her!"
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Damen froze. The fury in his eyes suddenly shattered, replaced by a profound, stunned realization.
"The silver gown..." he whispered, his grip on my hands loosening just enough for me to pull away. "You saw Francesca?"
