Chapter 3 - The Gathering Storm
The following morning, the Beverly Hills estate felt like a military fortress under siege. Twenty elite security guards patrolled the iron gates, their weapons concealed but ready. Inside the sunlit dining room, however, Damian was attempting something he had never done in his thirty-eight years of life: breakfast with a child.
Emily sat at the massive mahogany table, looking tiny in a soft pink sweater that Marcus’s wife had rushed over from a local boutique. A bowl of warm oatmeal and a plate of fresh fruit sat before her, but she was only playing with her spoon.
"You need to eat, Emily," Damian said, sitting across from her, a cup of black coffee in his hand. He had taken off his suit jacket, rolling up his sleeves to reveal the thick, jagged scars on his forearms—scars that her mother had meticulously stitched back together.
"My mom used to make me pancakes on Tuesdays," Emily said softly, looking out the grand glass windows at the manicured gardens. "She said that even if the sky was grey, Tuesdays were for sweet things."
Damian paused, his hard heart taking a strange, unfamiliar hit. He looked at the butler standing in the corner. "Tell the chef to make pancakes. Right now. With extra syrup."
"Yes, Mr. Rivas," the butler murmured, bowing quickly.
"Emily," Damian said, leaning forward, his gray eyes softening as he looked at her. "I have to leave for a few days to take care of some business. Some people in Detroit did a very bad thing, and I need to go fix it. While I’m gone, Marcus will be here. Nobody can get past him. Do you understand?"
"Are you going to see the bad men?" she asked, her green eyes piercingly sharp for a child. "The ones who made the fire?"
Damian didn't lie to her. He didn't believe in shielding children from the truths of a cruel world—Elena hadn't shielded her either. "Yes. I’m going to make sure they can never make a fire again."
"My mom said you were a guardian angel," Emily whispered, reaching into her pocket and pulling out a small, silver St. Jude medal her mother had worn in the clinic. She slid it across the table toward him. "She said you wear a dark coat, but your shield never breaks. Take this."
May you like
Damian picked up the warm piece of silver. He felt the weight of twenty-five years of bloodshed, of a life spent in the shadows of the mafia, suddenly validated by the simple trust of an innocent child. He tucked the medal into his vest pocket, right over his heart.
"I’ll bring it back to you, Emily," he promised. "Along with the justice your mother deserves."
