Chapter 6 - The Price of a BloodlineThe air in the grand foyer went instantly dead, heavy with a silence so absolute you could hear the distant crash of the Atlantic waves outside.
Damien’s eyes flicked upward. The laser sight of the hitman's weapon glowed a violent, fluorescent red against Wren's pale temple. The little girl looked terrified, her lower lip trembling, but she didn't cry out—she just stared down at her mother with wide, desperate eyes.
Victor Moretti’s smile vanished, replaced by a sudden flash of panic as he realized his rogue operative had gone off-script. "Wait, hold on, what are you doing? That wasn't the plan—"
"The plan changed, boss," the rogue operative called down from the landing, his voice dripping with cynical amusement. "The Morettis pay well, sure. But the highest bidder pays better. And I happen to know someone who wants the Cole syndicate wiped out from the inside."
Damien’s brain raced at lightspeed. A mole. Someone inside his own inner circle had flipped, feeding the Morettis the location and buying off an operative to take the girls hostage.
"Marcus," Damien muttered without taking his eyes off the balcony.
"I didn't know, Boss," Marcus snarled from the top of the stairs, his own gun drawn and pointed squarely at the rogue operative, though he couldn't fire without risking Wren's life. "I swear to God, I didn't know."
"Lower your weapon, Cole," the rogue on the balcony barked, pressing the barrel a fraction of an inch harder against Wren's head. "Drop the SIG on the floor, kick it over here, or the kid's brains paint this expensive wallpaper."
Rachel stumbled down a few steps, sobbing uncontrollably, her arms outstretched toward her daughter. "Don't shoot! Please, take me! Take everything we have, just don't touch my baby!"
"Shut up, woman!" the operative snapped. "Cole, I'm waiting! One... two..."
Damien didn't hesitate. He let his fingers relax. The custom SIG Sauer clattered loudly against the marble floor, sliding a few feet away.
Victor Moretti’s confidence instantly flooded back. He chuckled, stepping forward and kicking Damien’s fallen weapon aside with his Italian leather shoe. "Well, look at that. The great Damien Cole, brought to his knees by a six-year-old child. You're getting soft in your old age, Damien."
Victor turned his gaze up to the balcony. "Good work, Miller. Bring the kid down here. We're taking all of them. Tie Cole to the pillar and let's burn this mausoleum to the ground."
"Gladly, boss," the rogue operative—Miller—grinned, dragging Wren backward toward the stairs.
Rachel screamed again, lunging forward, but Marcus caught her waist, holding her back to prevent a tragedy.
Damien stood completely still, his hands raised slightly, his face a mask of absolute, terrifying calm. But beneath that exterior, his mind was calculating angles, distances, and probabilities. He knew Miller. Miller was a greedy bastard who cared about only one thing: survival and a paycheck.
"You think the Morettis are going to pay you, Miller?" Damien asked, his voice cutting through the tension like a razor. "Men like Victor don't pay traitors. They bury them in the same hole as their enemies."
Miller hesitated for a fraction of a second, his grip on Wren loosening just enough.
It was all the opening Damien needed.
With blinding speed, Damien dropped to the floor, sweeping his leg out and kicking a heavy silver decorative urn across the marble. The urn crashed into the back of Victor Moretti’s knees, sending the rival heir sprawling face-first onto the floor.
May you like
At the same time, Marcus fired a single, perfectly aimed shot that clipped Miller’s shoulder, spinning the rogue operative around and knocking him away from Wren.
"Get them out of here!" Damien roared, lunging forward to grab Victor by the collar before the rival boss could reach his fallen gun.
