Chapter 8 - The Dragon’s Reckoning
The surgical suite in the basement of the Morristown compound was lit by sterile, blinding white fluorescent tubes. For four hours, private trauma surgeons worked feverishly to extract the lead pellets and repair the arterial bleeding along Damian’s chest wall.
Hannah stood in the hallway outside, refusing to wash the dried blood from her hands. She wore Damian’s discarded overcoat over her clothes, pacing the cold granite floor.
Upstairs, Noah sat on the top step of the grand staircase, his knees pulled to his chest, refusing to sleep until his father came home. When Hannah finally walked up the stairs, exhausted and shaking, Noah looked up at her with tears swimming in his dark eyes.
""Is Dad broken again?"" the boy whispered.
Hannah sat down beside him on the step, wrapping her arm around his small shoulders and pulling him into a tight embrace. ""Your dad is the strongest dragon in the world, Noah. He's sleeping right now. The doctors fixed the cuts. He's going to be okay.""
Noah buried his face in her coat, smelling his father's cedar cologne and Hannah’s comforting lavender soap. ""I don't want you to leave, Hannah. Don't let the bad men take you.""
""Nobody is taking anyone, sweetheart,"" Hannah swore, her voice ringing with a fierce, newfound resolve. ""I'm right here.""
At dawn, Damian opened his eyes.
He was hooked to an IV line, his chest tightly bandaged, his face hollowed by blood loss. But the moment his gaze found Hannah sitting asleep in the chair beside his bed, holding Noah's red plush dinosaur in her lap, the tension in his jaw melted away.
Grant Mercer knocked softly and entered the room. He held a satellite phone and an encrypted tablet.
""Speak,"" Damian whispered, his voice raspy.
""Silvio Vitucci is holed up at their freight terminal in Port Newark,"" Grant said quietly. ""He thinks you're dead. He just called a sit-down of the five families for noon today to claim your territory.""
Damian slowly swung his legs off the bed, ignoring the agonizing burn of his stitched ribs. He stood up, swaying slightly before planting his feet firmly onto the floor.
""Mr. Morelli, you can't walk—"" Grant began.
""Bring me my suit,"" Damian ordered, his voice returning to that chilling, absolute command that made entire syndicates tremble. ""And tell the team to load the heavy equipment. We are not going to a sit-down, Grant. We are going to a funeral.""
Hannah stirred, her eyes fluttering open. She saw Damian standing by the bed, his dark eyes ablaze with cold vengeance.
""Damian, no,"" she gasped, leaping to her feet. ""You'll tear your stitches! You can't survive another fight!""
May you like
Damian turned to her. He reached out and gently took her hands—the same hands that had held his blood on the highway, that had held his son through the night.
""I spent twenty years fighting for power, Hannah,"" Damian said softly, leaning down to press a tender, reverent kiss to her forehead. ""Today, for the first time in my life, I am fighting to protect a future. Stay with Noah. When I come back, the war will be over.""
