Chapter 8 - The Price of Treason
The metallic smell of blood and scorched adrenaline hung thick in the air of the penthouse.
Savannah lay unconscious on the floor, while Marcus whimpered pathetic pleas from the corner where Gavin stood over him, a pistol aimed casually at the traitor’s forehead.
Declan didn't look at his uncle. He didn't look at Savannah.
He dropped to his knees right in front of me, his chest heaving, his dark eyes wide and wild as he gripped my waist, pulling me down until we were both kneeling on the floor.
"Are you insane?" he whispered, his voice trembling so hard he could barely form the syllables. "What did I tell you? I told you to stay in the vault! If that bomb had gone off—"
"If that bomb had gone off, you would have been dead!" I yelled back, tears of fury and relief streaming down my face as I grabbed his bloodied shirt collars. "You were going to let the gas suffocate you! You were going to die right in front of me!"
"I would die ten thousand times to keep you breathing!" Declan roared, burying his face in my neck, wrapping his arms around me with a grip so fiercely tight it knocked the wind out of me. He was trembling violently—the untouchable king of Chicago, shaking like a child in a thunderstorm. "Don't you ever do that again. Never."
"Only if you promise you'll stop trying to be a martyr," I choked out, wrapping my arms around his broad shoulders, my fingers tangling in his dark hair.
Beneath our pressed bodies, our unborn son gave another firm, distinct kick against my belly, pressing right against Declan’s chest.
Declan pulled back slightly, his breath catching. He laid his palm against the fabric of my sweater, feeling the undeniable, rhythmic flutter of life continuing stubbornly amidst the wreckage of war.
"He's fighting," Declan murmured, a choked, watery laugh escaping his throat. "Our boy is a fighter."
"He gets it from both of us," I said, wiping the blood from his cheek with my sleeve.
Behind us, Marcus Voss let out a groveling sob. "Declan... please. Blood of your blood. Your father wouldn't have let you murder your own kin."
Declan’s warmth vanished instantly. The tenderness in his eyes turned into absolute, chilling ice as he rose to his feet. He picked up his discarded coat, brushed the dust from his shoulders, and walked over to where his uncle was curled against the baseboard.
"My father is dead, Marcus," Declan said calmly. "And you traded family blood the second you handed Savannah Calloway the key to the nursery."
Marcus turned pale as ash. "Declan, I beg you—"
"Gavin," Declan said, not even looking down at the man. "Take Marcus to the docks. Put him on the freighter bound for the southern tip of Argentina. If he ever sets foot on the North American continent again, feed him to the river."
"Understood, boss," Gavin replied, hauling Marcus up by his collar with zero effort.
"And Savannah?" Gavin asked, gesturing to the unconscious woman on the floor.
Declan looked at the woman who had tried to murder his future. "Federal custody. Send the unredacted files on the Calloway cartel’s offshore accounts and human trafficking ties directly to the United States Attorney's office. Let the law bury her in a federal penitentiary for the next sixty years. She doesn't deserve the clean release of a bullet."
Gavin nodded, dragging Marcus toward the freight elevator. Within minutes, the penthouse cleanup crew arrived—silent, efficient men who removed Savannah, cleared the debris, and swept the floor until not a single drop of blood remained.
When the double doors sealed shut again, the penthouse was completely quiet.
Declan walked back over to me, extending a hand. I took it, letting him pull me gently to my feet. He looked down at our clasped hands, where the tiny gold ring my grandmother had given me caught the morning sunlight creeping through the east windows.
"Tomorrow, the Voss syndicate ceases to exist," Declan stated softly. "The papers are already drafted. The assets are shifting into private real estate, energy, and philanthropic trusts under your name."
"My name?" I asked, stunned.
May you like
"Everything belongs to you and our son," Declan said, pulling a small, velvet box from his pocket. He didn't kneel—we had already knelt together on the battlefield an hour ago. He simply opened the box to reveal a flawless, cushion-cut emerald surrounded by diamonds, matching the exact green of my eyes.
"No arranged marriages. No political alliances. No blood contracts," Declan whispered, sliding the ring onto my finger where it fit with miraculous perfection. "Just a man who loves you, asking if you'll let him spend the rest of his life keeping you safe."
