Chapter 6 - The Wrath of the CrossDamian stood in the blown-open doorway, backlit by the harsh amber headlights of his idling Mercedes.
He wasn't wearing his suit jacket anymore. His white shirt sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing hard, corded muscles laced with fresh sweat and old scars. In his right hand, he held a suppressed automatic rifle, pointed with absolute, dead-eyed precision straight at Scarface’s chest.
Behind him, a dozen armed men fanned out instantly, securing every exit.
Scarface froze, the blade hovering an inch from my throat. For a split second, calculation flickered in his dead eyes. He weighed his options—using me as a human shield against a man who looked like an executioner.
"Let her go, Mercer's dog," Damian said softly. It wasn't a threat. It was a physical law of nature. "And I might let you die quickly."
"Cross," Scarface sneer-laughed, tightening his grip around my throat. "You think you own this city? Mercer is already moving on your—"
Bang.
Damian didn't hesitate. He didn't negotiate.
The suppressed rifle spat a single, high-velocity round that took Scarface clean through the right shoulder.
The operative screamed, his grip instantly failing as his arm went limp. I dropped to the concrete floor, gasping for air, coughing violently as my lungs sucked in oxygen.
Before I could even register hitting the ground, Damian was there.
He dropped his weapon, falling to his knees beside me. His large, warm hands grabbed my face, turning it from side to side, his dark eyes frantically scanning my skin for damage.
"Elizabeth. Look at me. Did he hurt you?" His voice was uncharacteristically rough, laced with a raw, terrifying panic that didn't belong to a ruthless mafia boss.
"I'm... I'm okay," I gasped, clutching my throat. "Just... bruised."
Damian’s jaw worked, a muscle ticking violently in his cheek. He looked up at Miller, who was standing over the wounded operative.
"Take him," Damian snarled, his voice dropping into a dark, frozen abyss. "Take him to the basement holding cells. Break his fingers one by one until he tells me every single detail of Mercer's supply routes."
"Boss—" Scarface groaned from the floor.
Damian ignored him completely. He pulled me up into his arms, lifting me effortlessly against his chest as if I weighed nothing at all.
"You're not staying in this clinic another second," Damian ordered, turning toward the waiting car.
May you like
"My patients—" I protested weakly, resting my forehead against his solid shoulder, suddenly feeling the full weight of exhaustion crash over me.
"Your patients are being transferred," Damian cut me off, carrying me into the back of the Mercedes. "And you are coming home with me."
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