CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT DAMON
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
DAMON
NOW
Imove to the front of the jet when I can’t take Chloe’s sobs for another moment.
She knew this was coming.
She knew we would come for her eventually, and she should have known the second she saw us for the first time in New York that we weren’t just going to let a traitor walk away from us.
And yet she’s crying in the back like it’s a surprise?
Ronan isn’t helping matters with his sidelong gazes and the way he tenses when her cries get louder.
Even after all these years, she has the motherfucker wrapped around her little finger.
I’m going to have to keep him far away from the cellar when we reach Miami, because while he’s more than happy to cut off a man’s limbs for his betrayal, he won’t be able to handle seeing Chloe hurt.
Hell, the part of me that remembers the good times struggles, even if I’ll never admit that.
Just because I loathe her existence now doesn’t mean she isn’t a part of almost every good memory I have from childhood, much to my own dismay.
If I could wipe all those memories from my mind, I would have done it years ago. It would have saved me a lot of pain over the years.
Glancing over my shoulder, I find Chloe with her head down, tears still rolling down her cheeks. Surely she’s got to hit the acceptance stage sometime soon.
How long can the human body cry before the tears dry up anyway?
The urge to get her water from the fridge in front of me tugs at my chest, but I quickly shake it off. She needs to get used to being uncomfortable before we get back to the compound.
My father’s vendetta against Kingston has only gotten worse over the years, and he’s not going to accept that she has no information about his whereabouts, even if it’s the truth.
Tearing my attention from the crying woman behind me, I pull my phone from my pocket, intent to distract myself with work until we land.
The sooner we can hand her over to my father and his men, the better. Ronan and I are too close to this to think clearly, even if I fucking hate admitting it.
Perhaps I should have been expecting the thirteen missed calls from Camilla De Marco, or the string of threatening messages from Bishop and Crew, but I’ve been so caught up with the task at hand that I forgot about the consequences.
Just as I’m about to type out a response, Camilla’s name appears on the screen, and I sigh.
I guess there’s no delaying the inevitable.
“De Marco,” I greet, forcing my voice to remain even and unbothered.
“Chloe is under our protection. Taking her is going to start a war you cannot win, Lombardi. Bring her back to New York and we can forget this ever happened.” Straight to the point.
Despite disliking most of the Mafia queens I’ve met over the years, I quite like Camilla. She’s a silent threat that most would underestimate and regret it, and with the Syndicate at her back, she’s going to be unstoppable.
But I don’t take kindly to threats.
“That won’t be happening. Our issues with her predate your protection, therefore making it void.”
“You and I both know that’s not a thing, Damon. You think I won’t call in every favor owed to me to bring her home? I’ll burn your fucking family to the ground if that’s what it takes.”
“You’ve burned through all your favors recently,” I muse. “I can’t see that you have enough left to pull off such a feat.”
“You underestimate how much Chloe means to me if you think I won’t spend the rest of my life paying back debts if it means she’s safe.”
“You’re very attached to a housekeeper. I would have thought now you have a parade of men to take care of your every need, you wouldn’t need her anymore.
” I don’t know why I’m needling her. She has a lot of friends in high places and could absolutely tear our family to the ground if she put her mind to it, but I can’t help myself.
She drags in a frustrated breath, and I imagine the spitfire sitting in her hospital bed trying to retain her composure. “Lombardi, I’m giving you a chance to stop this before it can go too far. If you bring her back, all will be forgotten, no harm, no foul.”
“What do you know about Kingston Beaumont?” I ask.
She’s quiet for a beat, and I can’t help but wonder if she’s trying to place the name or diplomatically answer the question without betraying someone she works with. “The name is familiar, but I don’t think I’ve ever met him. Why?”
“Because he killed my mother, and Chloe knows where he is. This is personal for us as well.”
And then I end the call.
Let them come.
Chloe will be long dead before they get past the walls of the compound.