Chapter 62: The Weight of It
The car moved steadily through the late morning traffic, Damon stretched out in the back seat, phone pressed to his ear. Paulo’s voice came through the line.
“It wasn’t the same people, Damon,” Paulo said. “Whoever tried to run down your wife—different crew entirely. The man we caught, the one behind the abduction attempt, finally talked. He said the order came straight from Casa Cardini.”
Damon’s eyes narrowed, his fingers tightening against the armrest. “Cardini?”
“Yes,” Paulo confirmed. “He was clear about it. No hesitation.”
For a long moment Damon said nothing. Then he let out a low breath.
Then Paulo went on to say, “I think we have a problem here, Damon. You know what you father always said—stay out of Cardini business. Their roots go deeper than ours. You don’t pull them into a fight unless you want the ground to give way beneath you.”
“I remember,” Damon said replied.
“But why order Valerie’s abduction?”
He leaned back, his gaze sliding to the window. “I don’t know. I’ve given them no reason. None of this makes sense.”
“And the other thing,” Paulo pressed. “The car. If Cardini wanted her taken, who wanted her dead? Did you make another enemy you haven’t told me about?”
“No,” Damon said. Then, after a pause, his tone softened. “At least, not one that would dare this.”
“Then we’ve got two different hands at play,” Paulo muttered.
Damon’s jaw tightened. “Find out more from the man we caught. Push him again if you have to.”
There was silence on the other end, then Paulo said, “Can’t. He’s already dead. Poisoned in the cell before we got more out of him.”
Damon closed his eyes briefly, then said, “Then start somewhere else. I want names, Paulo. And soon.”
“I’ll work on it.”
The call ended and Damon slipped the phone back into his pocket, expression unreadable as the city gave way to open highway.
By the time he reached the penthouse, he had composed himself again. Lindsay was waiting, and he greeted her with something unexpected—a rare smile.
“I’ve got a surprise for you,” he said.
Her brow furrowed. “A surprise?”
“Mm. Come with me.”
Suspicion flickered across her face, but she didn’t refuse. She followed him outside to the basement parking and down to the car, sliding into the seat beside him.
Once the doors closed, she turned to him. “You’re not going to tell me where we’re going?”
“Not yet,” Damon said, still wearing that controlled smile. “But you’ll thank me later.”
The drive was long—nearly an hour. Lindsay kept trying, prodding Damon with small questions, but Damon never offered more than that same promise. Eventually the car slowed, pulling toward a warehouse set back from the road. Guards were stationed along the perimeter, rifles slung across their shoulders. The place was heavily secured.
Lindsay’s unease deepened, though she kept her voice steady as she asked, “What is this, Damon?”
He only gestured for her to wait as the gates opened to let them through.
The warehouse air was heavy with the smell of oil and steel, the low buzz of men stationed at every corner. Their eyes tracked Damon as he walked. Lindsay followed close.
They turned down a narrow passage until muffled sounds reached her ears—low, guttural cries that made her chest tighten. She slowed, glancing at Damon, but he kept walking, unbothered, until they reached the far end of the warehouse.
There, under a harsh light, hung a man in chains. He was stripped to his pants, his torso bloodied, with bruises, and open wounds. His head lolled, but the moment Damon’s footsteps stopped, he stirred weakly, letting out another broken groan.
Lindsay froze. The sight rooted her in place.
Then Damon’s voice came. “This,” he said, gesturing toward the prisoner, “is one of the four heads of the Sicilian syndicate. He’s the one who gave the order to go after you.”
Her eyes shot to him, then back to the man. “You’re saying… he’s the reason—”
“Yes,” Damon cut in. “The ambush at the café. That was his call.”
Lindsay’s stomach turned. She had expected Damon’s surprise to be jewelry, a gesture, maybe another show of wealth. But this—this was different.
Damon stood steady beside her, watching her closely now. He expected her to look away, maybe even to flinch at the violence laid out before her. This was the point. He wanted her to see, to understand.
But Lindsay didn’t look away. Her hands clenched at her sides as she stared at the broken man hanging in front of her.
“Give me your gun,” she then said.
Damon’s head turned as though he hadn’t heard her right. “What?”
“Your gun,” she repeated, holding out her hand.
For a long moment, he didn’t move. He weighed the demand. Finally, without a word, he drew the pistol from his jacket. He hesitated just a second more, then placed it in her palm. And before he could ask what she intended, she lifted the gun, leveled it at the man’s head, and pulled the trigger.
The crack split the silence, and the body slumped lifeless against the chains.
Smoke curled faintly from the barrel as Lindsay lowered the gun. Her pulse raced, but she didn’t tremble. She stood over what she had done, her breathing even, her gaze hard.
Damon stared at her like he was seeing her for the first time. He had brought her here to face her fear, maybe to show her what it looked like when someone paid for crossing him. He hadn’t expected her to take it further, to act without a flicker of doubt.
“You…” he started. “You didn’t even think twice.”
Lindsay looked at him calmly. “He tried to take my life. I’m not going to lose sleep over his.”
Damon’s silence stretched, but his eyes never left her. Something new lingered there—part shock, part respect, part fascination he couldn’t hide.
When she finally handed the gun back, he didn’t take it right away. He let the moment hang, the image of her standing there burned into his mind.
By the time he closed his hand around the pistol, the warehouse already felt different. Lindsay wasn’t just someone he needed to protect anymore. She had stepped into his world and proven she could stand in it.