Chapter 10 - The Reckoning of Ice"Borsov!" Damen’s voice didn't just carry through the woods; it seemed to shake the very earth beneath our feet. He walked through the blinding searchlights, his long black coat flying behind him in the wind from the helicopter blades. Behind him, fifty elite Moretti soldiers materialized from the darkness of the trees, their laser sights painting Borsov’s men in a grid of lethal red dots.
Borsov panicked, pulling me in front of his body, pressing the cold barrel of his gold pistol against my temple. "Stay back, Moretti! One step closer and I put a bullet through her skull! You want your mistress back? Give me the Brooklyn ports and safe passage out of the country!"
Damen stopped twenty feet away. He looked at the gun pressed against my head, and for a fraction of a second, I saw his entire body tremble with a terrifying, primal agony. He wasn't afraid of the Bratva. He wasn't afraid of the red dots. He was terrified of a world where I didn't exist.
"Nikolai," Damen said, his voice dropping to a low, dangerously calm whisper that cut right through my soul. "You think she is my mistress. You think you are holding a piece of leverage."
Damen reached slowly into his pocket, pulling out a solid gold band—his father’s signet ring, the symbol of the Moretti patriarch. He slid it onto his finger, looking directly into Borsov’s dead eyes.
"She is Clare Moretti," Damen announced, his voice booming with an unbreakable pride and a lethal finality. "She is my wife. And she is carrying the next Don of the Moretti family. If you so much as pull that trigger by a fraction of a millimeter, I won't just kill you, Nikolai. I will hunt down every single person who shares your bloodline across the globe until the name Borsov is completely erased from human history."
Borsov’s hand shook. For the first time, the old warlord realized he wasn't playing a game of business or turf. He had pushed a predator into a corner where survival didn't matter anymore. Damen was ready to die, ready to destroy everything he owned, just to kill the man holding his family.
"Damen..." I whispered through my tears, looking into his ice-blue eyes. "I trust you."
In that split second of distraction, as Borsov’s grip faltered from pure psychological terror, I drove my elbow back into his throat with all the strength I had left.
Borsov gasped, choking as his head snapped back.
Crack.
A single, muffled gunshot echoed through the forest. It didn't come from Borsov’s gun. It came from the tree line. Francesca Romano’s lead sniper had just executed a flawless shot through Borsov’s shoulder, sending his pistol flying into the snow.
Before the old Russian could even hit the ground, Damen was there. He closed the distance like a shadow, his fist connecting with Borsov’s jaw in a brutal, bone-shattering strike that knocked the older man unconscious instantly.
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Damen didn't look at his fallen enemy. He threw his arms around me, pulling me out of the snow and into his chest, holding me so tightly I could barely breathe. He was sobbing openly, his hot tears falling onto my cold shoulder as he kissed my hair, my face, my lips over and over again.
"I’ve got you. I’ve got you, my love," he whispered, his voice breaking completely. "You're safe. Our baby is safe. It's over, Clare. I’ve got you."
