Chapter 10 - The Ultimate Betrayal and the Final GambitThe figure stepping off the helicopter on screen nine wasn't a rival mob boss or a hired mercenary.
It was my brother, Julian Vance.
My hands trembled violently as I stared at the monitor. Julian—the golden-boy corporate attorney who lived in New York, who supposedly had nothing to do with the violent underworld of Boston.
“Surprised, Dr. Vance?” Mercer’s voice crackled mockingly through the speakers. “Your dear brother has been managing my offshore legal accounts for three years. And tonight, he’s the one who traded your security clearance to get my men inside Damian’s hotel.”
Damian didn't look at the monitor. His dark, storm-gray eyes slowly shifted away from Marcus, dropping the traitor to the floor where he gasped for air.
Then Damian turned his head and looked straight at me.
There was no anger in his eyes toward me. Only a terrifying, calm realization.
"You knew," Damian said quietly, his voice dangerously low.
"No!" I cried out, stepping forward, tears stinging my eyes. "I swear to God, Damian, I didn't know! I haven't spoken to Julian in months—I didn't know he was tied to Mercer!"
Damian studied my face for one excruciating second. He saw the raw, absolute truth in my eyes. The rigid tension in his shoulders relaxed just a fraction.
"I know," Damian murmured softly. Then, his face hardened back into absolute stone as he drew his Sig Sauer.
He turned his back to me, stepping toward the command center doors where Miller and his guards had formed a tactical perimeter.
"Marcus," Damian said, not even looking back at the coughing traitor on the floor. "Take him to the basement. Make sure he watches every single one of Mercer's accounts get wiped clean before you put a bullet in his head."
"Boss—!" Marcus screamed, but Miller’s men hauled him away instantly, the heavy doors sealing shut behind them.
Damian turned back to me, his gaze fierce, possessive, and entirely unyielding.
"Your brother made a choice," Damian said, his voice dropping into an intimate, lethal register. "He brought a war to my doorstep. And nobody touches what is mine and walks away."
"Damian, wait—he's my family," I pleaded, grabbing his sleeve, my heart breaking. "Let me talk to him. Let me fix this."
Damian covered my hand with his large, warm palm, his thumb brushing over my knuckles.
"You are my family now, Elizabeth," he said quietly, the words hanging heavy and absolute in the electrified air of the room. "And I handle my own wars."
He raised his tactical comms unit to his lips.
"Miller. Clear the roof. Bring the helicopter down. Tell Mercer his little game is over."
I stared up at Damian, the crimson dress of the previous night feeling like a lifetime ago, my heart pounding in a chaotic rhythm. Boston’s most feared mafia boss had just declared war on the entire underworld—all to protect the quiet trauma doctor who had accidentally wandered into his penthouse wearing a crimson dress.
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And as Damian pulled me against his side, shielding me from the screens, I knew one thing with absolute certainty:
There was no turning back.
