Chapter 4 - Crossfire and ConfessionsThe deafening roar of suppressed gunfire shattered the silence of the abandoned building.
Sparks flew off concrete pillars as bullets chipped away at the walls. Tilda screamed, dropping flat onto the blood-stained floor, pressing her hands over her ears as glass and debris rained down around her.
Through the chaos, she caught glimpses of Damon in action. He moved with terrifying grace—a lethal predator in a three-piece suit. He didn't hesitate, and he didn't miss. With three fluid shots, he neutralized the nearest thugs, clearing a path toward Marcone.
Marcone panicked, grabbing his revolver and firing wildly into the dark. "Vale! You bastard!"
"It's over, Frankie," Damon’s voice cut through the gunfire, cold and absolute.
Before Marcone could turn his gun toward Damon, a massive shadow dropped from an overhead beam. It was Viktor. With a brutal sweep of his leg, Viktor kicked the Colt Python out of Marcone’s hand, sending it clattering across the concrete.
Viktor slammed Marcone against a concrete pillar, pressing the barrel of his own gun firmly under the crime boss's chin.
The gunfire instantly stopped.
The remaining thugs dropped their weapons, raising their hands as Damon’s men swarmed them, zip-tying their wrists with ruthless efficiency.
Damon walked slowly toward Marcone, adjusting his cuffs. His suit was immaculate, untouched by the chaos around him, save for a single speck of dust on his lapel that he brushed off with quiet contempt.
Marcone spat blood onto the floor, glaring up at Damon with venomous hatred. "You think this stops anything, Vale? The Outfit owns half the city council! If you kill me, another boss takes my place tomorrow!"
Damon stopped a few feet away. He looked down at Marcone as if he were looking at a cockroach on his kitchen floor.
"I'm not going to kill you, Frankie," Damon said quietly.
Marcone blinked in surprise. "What?"
"Killing you is too easy. It makes you a martyr," Damon replied, his voice chillingly calm. "Instead, every dock, every warehouse, every gambling den, and every smuggling route you own belongs to me as of midnight. By sunrise, your assets will be liquidated, your men will be working for my syndicates, and your name will be wiped off the Chicago registry."
Marcone’s face drained of all color. "You... you can't do that! That's my whole life!"
"You tried to kill my son over a watch," Damon said, his eyes flashing with a terrifying, hidden depth. "You should consider yourself lucky that Tilda reminded me what real power looks like."
Damon turned away, gesturing to Viktor. "Bag him. Send him to the warehouse in Gary. Let him think about his retirement."
Viktor hoisted Marcone up by his collar like a ragdoll, dragging him screaming into the darkness.
Tilda slowly climbed to her feet, brushing the dust and grime off her knees. Her hands were still trembling violently. She looked around the carnage, the reality of what she had witnessed crashing down on her all at once.
"You lied to me," Tilda said, her voice shaking with adrenaline and anger.
Damon stopped and turned around, raising an eyebrow. "How so?"
"You said you were going to make him pay on your terms, but you didn't stop the war—you just won it in ten minutes!" Tilda stepped closer, poking a finger at his chest. "You just absorbed his entire criminal empire! You’re stronger now than you were before tonight!"
Damon looked down at her finger resting against his lapel, then up into her blazing, furious eyes. A strange expression crossed his face—something akin to genuine amusement and unexpected respect.
"In my world, Tilda, a vacuum invites chaos," Damon said softly, stepping closer to her until she could feel the heat radiating from him. "If I had simply walked away, Marcone would have regrouped, and innocent people would have died in the crossfire for months. By taking his empire cleanly, I ended the war before it started. Just like you asked."
Tilda stared at him, speechless. She opened her mouth to argue, but the words caught in her throat.
Suddenly, Damon’s satellite phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out, glanced at the screen, and his expression instantly shifted from a cold mob boss to an anxious father.
"Dr. Sterling," Damon muttered, answering immediately. "Talk to me."
Tilda held her breath, watching him.
Damon listened for ten seconds. The color in his face softened.
"Understood. Keep him comfortable. I'll be there in twenty minutes."
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He hung up and looked at Tilda.
"Lev is awake," Damon said quietly. "He asked for you."
