Chapter 6 - Ashes and Arsenals
Damian dragged Marcus into the adjoining private armory, slamming the heavy steel vault door shut and locking the deadbolts. The air inside smelled of gun oil, cold steel, and copper.
Marcus hissed in pain as Damian pressed a chemical gauze pad against his shattered shoulder. "The whole detail... they were on his payroll. Not just the new guys. Even Miller and Vance’s old guard."
"Julian played a long game," Damian said coldly, his face a mask of terrifying calm as he strapped a tactical rig over his black dress shirt. He pulled a suppressed carbine from the rack, checking the chamber with a practiced, fluid motion. "He wanted the estate, the accounts, and the syndicate. But most of all, he wanted to break me."
"He has the codes to the Swiss accounts," Marcus warned, his face pale from blood loss. "If he accesses the primary server in the basement vault, the family is bankrupt by midnight. Every asset frozen or transferred."
"He won't make it to the basement," Damian replied, sliding extra magazines into his vest. He looked down at the floor, where Clara and Lily sat huddled near a crate of ammunition. The little girl looked up at him, her small fingers still clutching the corner of her stained apron.
Damian knelt down, meeting the three-year-old’s eyes. For the first time all day, the hard lines of the mafia boss softened just a fraction.
"Lily," he said quietly. "Do you trust me?"
The child blinked, her bottom lip trembling, but she nodded slowly.
"Good girl." Damian looked up at Clara. "There’s a panic tunnel beneath the floorboards of the armory. It leads three miles out past the stone wall to the old boathouse on the lake. Take her, take the keys to my car parked in the garage down there, and don't stop driving until you reach the Canadian border. Marcus will give you the names of men who won't ask questions."
"Mr. Vane... Damian," Clara choked out. "What about you?"
"I’m going to clean my house," Damian said, standing up and racking the bolt of his carbine.
May you like
He stepped out of the armory, leaving the vault door cracked just enough for them to escape, and walked back into the burning wreckage of his study. The estate was silent now, save for the crackle of flames licking the wainscoting. Julian’s private army had secured the upper levels, but they didn't know the house the way Damian did. Every creak of the floorboards, every hidden alcove, every shadow had been carved into his memory during ten years of blood and survival.
It was time to remind them whose name was on the gates.
