Chapter 5 - CounterstrikeBy 6:00 a.m., the first rays of autumn sunlight were breaking over the Manhattan skyline, cutting through the heavy fog rising off the East River.
The armored Mercedes G-Wagon sped eastward down the Long Island Expressway, escorted by two trailing SUVs packed with heavily armed enforcers. In the back seat, little Leo slept peacefully, his breathing stabilized by a portable oxygen unit, his small hand resting trustingly inside Damian’s large palm.
Clara sat across from them, staring quietly out the window at the passing landscape.
“You don’t have to go back to the estate, Clara,” Damian said softly, breaking the silence. “Once we settle accounts with Samuel, my men will take you and your daughter to a secure location. New identities, fully funded bank accounts, anywhere in the world.”
Clara turned her head slowly, looking at the mafia boss. The man who commanded fear across the entire Eastern Seaboard was currently looking at his son with a tenderness that completely defied his ruthless reputation.
“Running didn’t work for me the first time, Mr. Costa,” Clara said quietly. “My daughter needs a mother who isn't hiding in the shadows, looking over her shoulder every time a car backfires. And frankly... I think you need someone around who isn't afraid to tell you when your security protocol is garbage.”
Damian let out a low, genuine chuckle—the first real laugh he had shared in three years.
“My security protocol was garbage,” Damian admitted readily. “Consider yourself the new head of internal risk assessment for Costa Enterprises. Starting salary of three hundred thousand, full medical, and armed bodyguards for your daughter whether you want them or not.”
Clara raised an eyebrow. “That’s a very aggressive hiring pitch.”
“In my line of work, we don't do probationary periods,” Damian replied smoothly.
Forty minutes later, the convoy rolled through the iron security gates of the Costa estate in Long Island. The heavy oak front doors of the grand mansion stood wide open. Inside, bound and gagged on the checkered marble foyer floor, sat Samuel Reed, surrounded by a dozen of Damian’s enforcers.
Samuel’s face was bruised, his expensive tailored suit covered in dust. When Damian walked through the doors carrying Leo in his arms, followed closely by Clara, Samuel’s eyes bulged with sheer terror.
Damian handed the sleeping boy gently to his sister, who had rushed down the grand staircase in tears of relief. Then Damian turned his cold, dead-eyed gaze onto the traitor on the floor.
“Samuel,” Damian said softly, walking slowly toward him until he stood towering over the trembling security chief. “I trusted you with my home. I trusted you with my family.”
“Damian—please—the Brooklyn bosses, they forced me—they had leverage—” Samuel stammered through his gag, tears streaming down his face.
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“Leverage is something you negotiate,” Damian said, pulling his Glock from his holster and pressing the cold steel barrel firmly against the center of Samuel’s forehead. “Betrayal is something you bury.”
A single, muffled gunshot echoed through the cavernous foyer, followed by absolute, profound silence.
