Chapter 8 - The Weight of the Bloodline
Damian turned back toward the study.
Sophia had finished retrieving her purple marker. She was now sitting on the sheepskin rug with her back resting comfortably against Bruno’s massive, muscular ribs, using the dog's broad flank as an easel for her sketchbook. The Cane Corso lay completely still, his head pillowed on his front paws, his yellow eyes half-closed in absolute contentment, occasionally letting out a soft, rumbling breath that rustled the pages of her drawing.
"Sophia," Damian called softly.
The little girl looked up, her curls catching the sunlight streaming through the arched windows. "Yes, Mr. Damian?"
"What are you drawing?"
"A castle," Sophia answered, holding up the page with two hands. "With purple towers. And a big black dog to protect the gate."
Damian felt an ancient, heavy knot tighten behind his sternum. For fifteen years, he had lived in an emotional bunker. He had surrounded himself with concrete walls, bulletproof glass, armed mercenaries, and an army of killers, believing that the only way to survive the ruthless landscape of Chicago was to eliminate every trace of vulnerability. He had no wife, no children, no living siblings. He was a king sitting upon a throne of cold steel, convinced that his bloodline ended with him.
And yet, here was his cousin. Here was his niece.
Living in a rented walk-up in Pilsen, scrubbing his floors for eighteen dollars an hour, while his offshore accounts held three hundred million dollars of inherited blood money.
Damian walked back to his black oak desk.
He didn't sit down. He pressed the intercom button on the integrated console.
"Vance," Damian commanded.
"Sir," Marcus answered, stepping up to the edge of the desk.
"Call Captain Miller at the gatehouse. Lock down the estate perimeter. Shift the security detail to condition red. No one enters or leaves the grounds without my personal authorization."
"Boss?" Marcus frowned, confused. "Condition red? Are we under threat?"
"We are under reorganization," Damian corrected, his voice flat, icy, and absolute. "And Marcus?"
"Sir?"
"Call the property management office. The Alvarez family does not work for Cruz Estate Services anymore. Void the contract. Liquidate the administrative files."
Rosa’s heart plummeted into her stomach. The color drained from her cheeks once more, panic flaring in her eyes as she rushed forward into the study, forgetting her fear of the dog.
"Damian, no!" Rosa pleaded, grabbing the edge of the black oak desk with both hands. "Please! Don't fire me! I have rent due on Friday! Sophia needs her school supplies! I swear to God I won't say a word to anyone! I won't tell the press, I won't tell the other families—just let me keep my job!"
Damian looked at her hands resting on the oak wood.
Slowly, deliberately, he reached out and placed his own large, calloused hand over hers. His grip was warm, solid, and completely devoid of violence.
"Rosa," Damian said gently. "Look at me."
May you like
Rosa looked up through her tears.
"A daughter of the Cruz family does not scrub floors," Damian said, each word landing with the weight of an iron decree. "She does not carry a bucket. And she does not beg for rent."
