Chapter 3 - The Ghost of Pier 42
"Up," Damon said.
It was not an invitation.
Alina scrambled to her feet, her legs trembling so hard she could barely hold her own weight. Mia, sensing the sudden shift in the room's atmosphere, buried her face in Alina’s neck, her little fingers tangling in her mother’s hair.
"Stevens," Damon commanded without looking back.
"Yes, sir?" The old butler stepped forward, his composure restored, though his eyes remained wide with shock.
"Take the child to the sunroom. Have the kitchen prepare whatever she wants. Fruit, biscuits, chocolate. Keep the doors guarded. No one enters. No one leaves."
"No!" Alina cried, backing away toward the stairs. "No, please, don't separate us! Please, Damon, she’s all I have left—"
"Alina." Damon stepped into her path, his shadow falling over her completely. His face was terrifying in its neutrality. "If I meant to harm your daughter, she would not be eating sweets in my sunroom. Give her to Stevens. Now."
Alina looked into his eyes. There was darkness there, an ocean of violence and ruthless control, but beneath it, burning like an unquenched ember, was an agony that mirrored her own. Slowly, her arms loosened.
"Go with Mr. Stevens, baby," Alina whispered, kissing Mia’s temple, her voice breaking. "Mommy has to talk to the gentleman. Just for a minute."
Mia looked at Damon suspiciously, then back at her mother. "He smells like rain."
"Go, sweetheart," Alina urged.
Stevens took the little girl gently, murmuring soft reassurances as he carried her toward the bright, glass-paneled wing of the manor. Two armed guards followed immediately, taking positions outside the double doors.
"My study," Damon said, turning sharply on his heel. "Now."
The study on the second floor was a fortress of dark mahogany, leather, and book-lined walls. Rain beat a steady, rhythmic cadence against the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the sprawling, mist-covered gardens of the estate. A fire crackled in the massive stone hearth, casting long, dancing shadows across the Persian rug.
Damon walked straight to the bar cart, unstoppered a crystal decanter of amber scotch, and poured two glasses. He didn't offer one to Alina. He downed his in a single swallow, the liquor burning down his throat without causing him to flinch.
Alina stood near the door, her hands clenched in her apron, her back rigid.
"Three years," Damon said, his back turned to her. "Three years I tore this city apart looking for you."
"You were looking for me to finish the job," Alina spat, the fear in her chest suddenly giving way to a white-hot spark of defiance. If she was going to die today, she would not die cowering. "Isn't that why you wanted us, Damon? Because Marco died in your fire, and you couldn't leave any loose ends?"
Damon turned around slowly. He set the empty glass down on the silver tray with a sharp *clink*.
"My fire?"
"Pier 42," she said, her voice shaking with rage and tears. "The warehouse. He worked for your father. He worked for *you*. He went down to those docks on a Tuesday night because he received a direct order from the Moretti inner circle. And two hours later, the entire pier was bathed in kerosene and diesel, burning so hot the steel girders melted into the harbor!"
She took a step forward, the grief she had carried alone in dark, moldy apartments finally bursting through the dam of her restraint.
"They found his belt buckle, Damon! That was it! Not even enough of his bones to put in a proper casket! And the police said it was an electrical malfunction! An industrial accident! While you took over the shipping routes, expanded your territory, and sat in your golden castle!"
Damon listened, unmoving. He took the accusations like iron taking hammer blows.
When she finished, chest heaving, sobbing silently in the middle of his grand room, Damon reached into his waistcoat. He pulled out a small, tarnished brass key attached to a dog tag.
He tossed it onto the heavy oak desk between them.
"Do you know what that unlocks?" Damon asked quietly.
Alina stared at the key. Her breath hitched.
"It unlocks a private slip at the North Port Marina," Damon said, stepping around the desk until he was standing just feet from her. "Where a fifty-foot trawler was waiting with three hundred thousand dollars in cash, two sets of forged Canadian passports, and infant supplies for a baby girl who wasn't even born yet."
Alina looked up, her eyes wide, disoriented. "What?"
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"Marco didn't go to Pier 42 on an order from my family," Damon said, his voice dropping into a harsh, ragged whisper. "He went there to meet *me*. We were getting him out. We were getting *both* of you out."
***
