Chapter 9 - Reckoning at Midnight
The clash of steel echoed through the red-lit garage as Damon and Vane engaged in a brutal, lightning-fast knife fight.
Vane was heavy and powerful, slashing violently, driven by desperation. But Damon moved like a ghost—agile, precise, and lethal. Even with his injured ribs, Damon parried every heavy strike with practiced ease, his gray eyes locking onto Vane's like a predator stalking its prey.
I kept my submachine gun trained on the two bodyguards pinned behind the Ferrari, ensuring neither of them could interfere.
"Is that all you have, Vane?" Damon taunted smoothly, dodging a wide horizontal slash that sliced clean through the leather headrest of a nearby convertible.
Vane roared in frustration, lunging forward with a thrust aimed directly at Damon's heart.
Damon stepped inside the blow, trapping Vane's wrist with his left hand, pulling the mob boss off balance. With a swift, savage strike, Damon drove his blade deep into Vane's shoulder, snapping his collarbone with a sickening crunch.
Vane screamed, dropping his knife as he stumbled back against the hood of a sleek black Rolls-Royce.
Damon didn't give him a second to breathe. He grabbed Vane by the throat, slamming him hard against the car's windshield, the glass spiderwebbing under the impact.
"Who told you about the Romanov bloodline?" Damon demanded, pressing the edge of his blade against Vane's neck.
Vane choked, blood bubbling at the corner of his lips. "It... it wasn't just Kirill," he gasped. "The Syndicate council... in New York... they know she's alive. They'll never let her live!"
"Then I'll burn New York to the ground next," Damon whispered coldly.
With a final, decisive movement, Damon ended the fight. Vane slumped lifelessly across the hood of the car.
The two remaining bodyguards saw their leader fall, dropped their weapons, and raised their hands in absolute surrender.
"Smart choice," I said, stepping out from cover, keeping my weapon raised until Damon signaled his loyal security forces—who had finally arrived from the south docks, led by his trusted captain, Lev.
"Boss!" Lev yelled, bursting into the garage with ten heavily armed guards. "We caught Kirill's false radio signals! The docks were a diversion!"
"I know, Lev," Damon said, wiping his blade clean with a silk handkerchief. "Clean up this mess. Secure the estate perimeter. And prepare my private jet."
Lev blinked, looking at the bodies on the floor and then at me, standing proudly beside Damon in my blood-stained maid's uniform. "Where are we going, sir?"
Damon walked over to me, wrapping a broad, warm arm around my waist, pulling me securely against his side.
"We are going to New York," Damon announced, his voice echoing with absolute authority. "It's time my wife claimed her rightful seat at the table."
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I looked up at him, my eyes wide with surprise. "Wife?"
Damon looked down at me, his gray eyes burning with pure, unyielding devotion. "You didn't think I was going to let you remain a maid after tonight, did you, Princess?"
