Chapter 6 - The Truth on the PorchDamian didn't flinch.
He didn't pull out a wallet, or threaten her with lawyers, or try to force his way past her. He simply stood there, absorbing the sight of her like a man dying of thirst who had finally stumbled upon a well.
“You didn’t call the police,” Damian said quietly. “You sent the boy out the back.”
Isabella’s eyes narrowed into slits. “If you touch him—if you come anywhere near my son—I swear to God, Damian, I will find a way to burn your entire empire to ash, even if it kills me.”
“He’s my son, too.”
The words hung in the crisp morning air, heavy and undeniable.
Isabella let out a sharp, bitter laugh that held no humor at all. “Oh, is he? That’s funny. Because nine years ago in a hospital room in Chicago, you looked me in the eye, listened to your precious underboss, and told me you wouldn't even put your name on his birth certificate because you were too cowardly to believe the woman who loved you.”
Damian flinched. The words struck him like physical blows. He took half a step forward, his hands opening instinctively in a gesture of plea.
“I was lied to, Isabella.”
“By your choice!” she fired back, her voice rising, shaking with nearly a decade of stored-up pain. “You chose Victor Salazar over me! You chose your paranoia, your control, and your syndicate! You didn't want a wife, Damian—you wanted a prisoner! And when I refused to bow, you threw me out like trash!”
“I know,” Damian said, his voice breaking on the syllable.
Isabella stopped. She stared at him, caught off guard by the admission. In all the versions of this confrontation she had played out in her nightmares over the past nine years, Damian Moretti had never apologized. He had never admitted fault.
“Last night,” Damian continued, his gaze never leaving hers, “I received a call from a municipal clerk in Harrisburg. She found the second DNA report. The one Victor and Briggs buried before I could see it. Ninety-nine point nine-nine percent match.”
A heavy silence fell between them.
The morning traffic on Main Street began to pick up in the distance—a distant school bus gear shifting, the hum of a commuter’s engine.
“It’s too late, Damian,” Isabella whispered, her voice dropping into a devastating softness that hurt worse than her screaming. “You don't get to miss nine years of first steps, scraped knees, and bedtime stories, and then walk up on my porch like nothing happened. You made your bed in Chicago. Stay in it.”
“I can’t,” Damian said, his voice thick with an anguish that terrified her. “Because for nine years, I’ve been living in a ghost town. And last night, I realized the only reason I survived this long was because a part of me already knew the truth.”
Before Isabella could reply, a sudden, sharp sound cut through the morning air from down the street.
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Screeeech—BANG!
The horrific sound of twisting metal and shattering glass echoed violently from the intersection of Main and Caldwell.
