Chapter 6 - Crossing the Atlantic
The private Gulfstream G650 climbed steeply into the pre-dawn sky, leaving the glittering grid of Chicago behind as it punched through a thick blanket of gray cloud cover.
Inside the cabin, the atmosphere was a stark contrast to the luxurious commercial flights I had occasionally cleaned interior cabins for in my past life. There were no seatbelt chimes, no flight attendants offering stale pretzels. Just plush cream-colored leather, wood-paneled walls, and the quiet, low roar of twin jet engines.
Leah was sleeping in a custom bassinet secured near the center of the cabin. Her small chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm, clutching her worn velvet rabbit—the same rabbit she had dropped on the floor of Caruso’s twenty-four hours earlier.
I sat across the aisle, staring out the window as the ground disappeared beneath an endless ocean of white clouds.
Footsteps padded softly across the carpet. Damian sat down in the seat opposite me, holding two cups of black coffee. He set one on the small mahogany table between us before leaning back.
"You haven't slept," he observed.
"Neither have you," I replied, not looking away from the window.
"I sleep when problems are solved," he said simply. "Right now, this problem is thirty thousand feet in the air and heading east at Mach 0.85."
I took a slow sip of the coffee, feeling its heat burn down my throat. "What happens when we get to Geneva, Mr. Caruso?"
"Callum."
I blinked, looking at him. "What?"
"My name is Damian, but my friends call me Callum," he said, a faint, dry shadow of a smile touching his lips. "Given that we are currently flying across international airspace to rescue our daughter from a corrupt Swiss syndicate, I think 'Mr. Caruso' is a bit overly formal."
A reluctant breath of air escaped my lips—half a laugh, half a sigh. "Okay. Damian."
"When we land in Geneva," he continued, his tone shifting instantly back to cold, tactical precision, "my local security assets will already have the chalet surrounded. Viktor’s remaining loyalists won't expect us for another forty-eight hours. We take the house, secure the child, and bring our family home."
"Our family," I repeated the words softly, tasting them on my tongue. They felt foreign, heavy, and terrifyingly real.
"Two years ago, you were told your baby died," Damian said, leaning forward, his gray eyes fixing on mine with an intensity that made it impossible to look away. "Two years ago, I was handed half of a broken heart and told to build an empire with it. The men who did this thought they could treat human lives like ledger entries. They forgot that blood doesn't wash out that easily."
"What if we're too late?" I asked, the fear finally breaking through my armor. "What if Viktor already moved her?"
May you like
Damian reached across the table. His hand—large, scarred across the knuckles from years of violence—covered mine. His skin was warm, firm, and steady.
"We are never too late," he said quietly. "Not anymore."
