Chapter 4 - Whispers in the Dark
The afternoon dragged on with excruciating slowness. The mansion transformed into an armed garrison. Crates of munitions were brought up through the basement, and black sedans lined the driveway like a funeral procession. Amelia sat on the wide stone terrace wrapped in a heavy cashmere blanket Damen had sent up to her room, watching the guards patrol the icy gardens below.
She hated him for dragging her into this underworld, but an insidious, terrifying truth was beginning to settle into her chest: she felt safer standing beside Damen Blackwood than she ever had in her life.
At seven o’clock, Marcus arrived at her door carrying a long garment bag. ""The boss says put this on. We move in twenty minutes.""
Inside the bag was a tailored black wool coat with an inner lining made of lightweight Kevlar, along with flat leather boots. When she walked down to the front foyer, Damen was already waiting, flanked by ten men in tactical gear. He wore an all-black overcoat, a silver watch glinting at his wrist, his silhouette sharp and predatory.
""You don't leave my side,"" Damen commanded as she approached. ""No matter what happens, no matter what you hear. If shots are fired, Marcus takes you behind the engine block of the lead car. You do not look back.""
""I told you I'm not running,"" she said, her voice shaking slightly but her chin lifted with that same stubborn fire he had seen through the Maybach glass. ""If I'm going into your nightmare, Damen, I'm facing it on two feet.""
A ghost of a smile touched his lips. For the first time, his gaze dropped to her mouth, lingering on the subtle tint of rose lipstick she had reapplied in the bathroom mirror—her armor of choice. ""God help me,"" he murmured under his breath, ""you really are fearless.""
The convoy departed in total blackout mode, running without headlights through the desolate industrial streets of South Chicago. The meeting point was a cavernous rail maintenance hangar, rusted and hollowed out, its broken skylights letting in shafts of pale moonlight.
Inside the hangar, five black luxury cars were parked in a half-circle, their bright high beams blinding the entrance. Standing in front of the center vehicle was Salvatore Moretti—short, portly, wearing a vicuña camel coat and a sickening grin that revealed gold molars. Flanking him were a dozen heavily armed mercenaries.
Damen stepped out of the SUV, holding his hand out to help Amelia down. He laced his fingers through hers, pulling her close against his side. The gesture was possessive, undeniable, and broadcast a crystal-clear message to every man in the room: She is mine.
""Damen!"" Moretti called out, his voice echoing shrilly off the corrugated steel ceiling. ""The great phantom of Chicago, finally dragging himself out into the cold. And look at what you brought us. A sweet little baker girl."" Moretti’s eyes crawled over Amelia like insects. ""They say she’s the reason you skipped your quarter-million-dollar import summit on Tuesday. A girl with flour on her hands.""
""State your business, Salvatore,"" Damen said, his voice flat, dropping the temperature in the room by ten degrees. ""You asked for a meeting. We are here. Speak before I lose patience.""
Moretti stepped forward, clapping his hands together. ""Simple terms, Blackwood. You surrender the rail line access on the south dock. You pay thirty percent tax on your pharmaceutical shipments. And to make sure you behave yourself..."" Moretti grinned wider, gesturing toward Amelia. ""The girl stays with me at the casino for ninety days as collateral. Just a little insurance policy between old friends.""
Amelia felt Damen’s grip tighten until her knuckles clicked. The air turned brittle. Damen did not raise his voice. He took a single step forward, shielding her entirely behind his broad shoulders.
""You made a mistake bringing her into this, Moretti,"" Damen said softly.
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""Is that a refusal?"" Moretti sneered, snapping his fingers. Instantly, the sound of twelve weapons cocking echoed through the cavernous hangar. ""You're outnumbered, boy. Look up.""
Above them, red laser sights flickered along the metal catwalks, painting crimson dots across the hoods of Damen's vehicles. Amelia’s blood ran cold. It was an ambush.
