Chapter 6 - THE RETURN OF THE GHOST
A man came through the shattered entryway like a force of nature.
He was broad-shouldered, wearing a dark, expensive coat soaked with rain, his face a mask of absolute, murderous fury. He didn't look like a businessman; he looked like a god of vengeance resurrected from the dark alleys of Chicago.
It was Damian.
Marcus spun around, his gun swinging toward the front hall, but Damian was already there.
Damian’s hand closed around Marcus’s wrist with the speed of a striking viper. He twisted the arm downward, a sharp crack of bone echoing through the dark kitchen as the gun fell from Marcus's useless fingers, clattering against the linoleum.
Marcus gasped, but Damian didn't give him a chance to recover. He drove a heavy, devastating fist into Marcus’s jaw, sending the hitman crashing through the dining room partition. The wooden cabinet shattered, plates and glasses raining down on Marcus’s limp body as he lay unconscious in the debris.
The kitchen fell into a sudden, suffocating silence, broken only by the sound of the wind howling through the open back door.
Damian stood in the center of the room, his chest heaving, his hands covered in Marcus's blood. The flashlight Marcus had dropped lay on the floor, its beam pointing upward, casting long, dramatic shadows across the ceiling.
Damian’s eyes searched the darkness until they found Isabella.
She was still standing near the counter, the chef’s knife held in a defensive stance, her eyes wide with a mixture of shock, terror, and a deep, visceral recognition.
"Isabella," Damian breathed, his voice cracking with an emotion he hadn't allowed himself to feel in nearly a decade.
"Damian," she whispered, her voice barely audible.
For a long, agonizing moment, neither of them moved. The space between them was filled with nine years of silence, of unanswered calls, of betrayal, and of a little boy who had never known his father's name.
Then, a small voice broke the spell.
"Mom?"
Eli crawled out from beneath the table, his dark eyes wide as he looked from his mother to the giant of a man standing in their kitchen.
Damian’s gaze fell to the boy.
He froze.
The flashlight beam caught Eli’s face—the sharp jaw, the serious, dark eyes, the stubborn set of his mouth. It was like looking into a mirror that had traveled back thirty years in time.
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Damian’s knees buckled. For the first time in his life, the undisputed king of Chicago’s underworld looked completely defenseless. He fell to one knee on the wet kitchen floor, his hands shaking as he reached out toward the child, his chest dry-heaving with a sob he tried desperately to suppress.
"Eli," Damian whispered, his voice trembling so violently he could barely form the word. "My god... Eli."
