Chapter 6 - The Ash of AstoriaMy heart shattered as Damen left the room, locking the heavy steel-reinforced bedroom door behind him. For the next four hours, I paced the massive penthouse bedroom, my hands trembling as I looked out at the snowy skyline. I could see the distant glow of sirens flashing over the Queensboro Bridge.
They were burning my shop. The little corner of the world where I had felt safe, where my mother’s old porcelain vases stood, where I had spent years cultivating beautiful things—all of it was being reduced to ash because I had let a billionaire mobster into my life.
When Damen returned at dawn, he smelled of smoke and winter air. There was a small, deep cut along his cheekbone, the blood dried into a dark crimson line. His knuckles were bruised, his shirt torn at the shoulder.
He didn't say a word. He walked straight to where I stood by the window, throwing his arms around me, burying his face into the crook of my neck. He was breathing heavily, his entire body rigid with tension.
"The shop is gone, Clare," he whispered, his voice raw. "I’m sorry. I got my men there as fast as I could, but they had already tossed an incendiary device through the front window. It was a message from Nikolai Borsov."
Nikolai Borsov. The head of the Russian Bratva syndicate in New York—a ruthless, older warlord who had been fighting the Moretti family for control of the Brooklyn shipyards for a decade.
"He found out?" I asked, my voice shaking as I clutched Damen’s shoulders.
"He found out I deployed three armored units to a random apartment building in Queens last night," Damen said, pulling back to look into my eyes, his face dark with fury. "He knew I was protecting something invaluable. He thought it was a safehouse or a transaction hub. He doesn't know about the baby yet—he thinks you're just a favored mistress. But he’s digging."
Damen grabbed my face in both of his hands, his thumbs sweeping across my cheeks. "He thinks he can use you to make me surrender the Brooklyn ports. He doesn't understand. I am going to eradicate his entire organization by the end of the week."
"Damen, no! More violence isn't going to fix this!" I pleaded, terror for him—and for our future—flooding my chest. "If you launch a full-scale turf war, the federal prosecutors will step in. You’ll end up in prison, or dead, and our baby will grow up without a father anyway!"
"Then what do you suggest I do, Clare?" Damen roared, his control finally snapping. He stepped back, gesturing wildly to the luxurious penthouse around us. "Sit here and wait for them to find a way into this tower? Let them poison your food? Let them strike when we go to a medical checkup? In my world, the only way to protect what is yours is to eliminate the threat entirely!"
"There is another way," a calm, authoritative voice spoke from the doorway of the bedroom.
May you like
We both spun around. Standing there, flanked by two Moretti guards, was Francesca Romano—the woman from the gala. She was no longer wearing her silver gown; she wore a sharp, impeccably tailored black power suit, her dark hair pulled back into a flawless, professional bun.
"Damen," Francesca said, stepping into the room with a smooth, calculating grace. "You can't kill Borsov without starting a war with the Moscow council. But Clare is right—violence will ruin the Moretti stock before the quarterly merger. We don't kill him. We bankrupt him."
