Chapter 3 - The Trap set in Silk
Marcus froze for a fraction of a second, his polished composure faltering under the razor-sharp intensity of Damian’s gaze.
"Of course, nephew," Marcus smoothed over quickly, stepping further into the room. "We are family. Your father would have wanted me to protect you—and your staff."
"My father," Damian repeated, taking a slow step toward Marcus, "died in a car fire on 4th Avenue. Do you remember that night, Marcus? You held me in the hospital corridor and told me that the Chicago families were responsible."
"I remember," Marcus said, his hand sliding subtly toward his coat pocket. "It was a tragic loss."
"Leo," Damian called out calmly without looking back.
On the wall monitors behind Damian, the high-definition display switched from Clare's medical charts to the raw microfilm records, displaying Marcus's electronic signature directly beneath the bomb wire transfer receipts from twelve years ago.
Marcus’s face drained of color. His eyes darted to the guards behind him.
"You were nineteen when my father died," Damian said, his voice dropping into a lethal, low murmur. "You thought I was too young, too arrogant to notice the quiet bleed of assets. You used my grief as your playground."
"Damian, listen to me—" Marcus gasped, pulling a suppressed pistol from his jacket.
Before Marcus could raise the barrel, Damian moved with blinding, predatory speed. He seized Marcus’s wrist, twisting it upward until the bone snapped with a sickening crack. The gun clattered to the floor.
Damian slammed Marcus against the concrete wall, his hand locked around Marcus's throat, lifting the older man inches off the ground.
Marcus’s four guards reached for their weapons, but six of Damian’s elite enforcers stepped out from the shadows of the adjoining suite, their laser sights painting red dots across the guards' chests.
"Drop them," Leo commanded coldly.
The guards immediately raised their hands and lowered their arms to the floor.
Marcus choked, his face turning purple, his hands clawing uselessly at Damian’s iron grip. "Damian... please... I raised you..."
"You buried my father," Damian hissed, his dark eyes burning with pure, unadulterated vengeance. "And then you put the woman I love in a damp cellar to starve in the dark."
Clare gasped softly from the hospital bed at the words—the woman I love—her heart leaping in her chest despite the chaos.
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Damian didn't kill Marcus then. He lowered him slightly, throwing him like a sack of trash onto the floor at the feet of his enforcers.
"Take him to the sub-basement of the Brooklyn docks," Damian ordered his men. "Strip him of his accounts, his title, and his dignity. He will answer for every penny he stole, and every tear Clare shed."
