Chapter 4 - THE BREAKFAST TABLE INCIDENT
The next morning, sunlight cut through the frost on the tall east-wing windows, illuminating dust motes dancing in the quiet air.
Nora woke up on the velvet sofa in the adjoining suite, her back aching from sleeping half-bent. She washed her face in the marble bathroom, pulled her hair back into a neat braid, and stepped out into the hallway.
From downstairs, she could hear the muffled sound of raised voices echoing up the stairwell.
“I’m telling you, Damon, the board meeting in Zurich cannot wait!” a sharp, grating voice snapped. “If you don't sign off on the European shipping transfers by noon, the Italian syndicate is going to move in on our maritime routes while we’re sitting here playing nursemaid!”
Nora crept down the stairs and paused near the archway of the grand dining hall.
Standing near the massive mahogany dining table was a tall, thin man in an expensive gray plaid suit—middle-aged, with slicked-back blond hair and a mouth curled into a permanent sneer. It was Julian’s worst nightmare brought to life: Viktor Vance, one of Damon’s primary regional capos and a known backstabber within the syndicate.
Damon sat at the head of the table, cutting a piece of toast with absolute, chilling precision. He didn't even look up as Viktor ranted.
“Let them move in, Viktor,” Damon said, his voice terrifyingly calm. “Let’s see how long they survive in Boston Harbor once I start cutting off their supply lines.”
“You’re losing your edge, Damon!” Viktor slammed his palm onto the table. “Ever since Elena died, you’ve been distracted by a ghost and a five-year-old who hasn't spoken a single word in six days! You’re weak—”
Before Viktor could finish the sentence, a heavy silver butter knife clattered against the table.
Damon didn't stand up. He simply turned his head, his dark eyes fixing on Viktor with a look so intensely murderous that the capo instinctively took a half-step back.
“Say that word again,” Damon whispered, each syllable dropping like ice. “Go ahead, Viktor. Let me hear you explain to my face how a man who buried his wife to protect this syndicate is weak.”
Viktor swallowed hard, his throat working frantically as he tried to regain his composure. “I... I only meant that business requires—”
“Business requires loyalty,” Damon interrupted, standing up slowly. He towered over Viktor by several inches. “And right now, your loyalty is looking remarkably thin. Get out of my house before I decide to test whether you float.”
Before Viktor could sputter a response, he caught movement out of the corner of his eye and turned to see Nora standing in the archway.
Viktor’s sneer twisted into an ugly, patronizing grin. “Ah. So this is the little waitress who got herself fired from The Aurelian and moved straight into the boss’s bedchamber. Tell me, sweetheart, does he pay you by the hour, or do you get a cut of the smuggling revenue?”
The air in the dining room turned absolute zero.
Marcus Reyes, standing near the door, instantly reached for his holster.
But Damon was faster.
In a blur of motion, Damon crossed the room, grabbed Viktor by the lapels of his expensive plaid suit, and slammed him against the limestone pillar with enough force to rattle the crystal chandelier overhead.
“You never,” Damon hissed, his voice vibrating with a terrifying, contained fury, “speak her name in this house again.”
Viktor’s face turned purple, his hands clawing helplessly at Damon’s wrists. “D-Damon... I swear—”
“Get out,” Damon growled, shoving him back so hard Viktor stumbled and nearly fell over a chair. “If you ever set foot on this property again, I won't just take your territory. I’ll take your legs.”
Viktor scrambled backward, grabbing his briefcase, and practically fled down the hall, his footsteps clattering frantically against the marble.
Silence descended upon the dining hall once more.
Damon stood near the pillar, his chest heaving slightly as he tried to master the dark rage boiling beneath his skin. He closed his eyes, taking a slow, deep breath, before turning to face Nora.
Expectation of anger, or perhaps embarrassment, hung heavy in the air.
Instead, Nora walked right past the broken atmosphere, picked up a plate of fresh fruit from the buffet, and spoke with absolute calm.
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“You know, for a criminal mastermind,” Nora said evenly, “you have terrible table manners.”
Damon stared at her, utterly bewildered, before a slow, involuntary exhale broke through his clenched teeth—a sound that was almost, impossibly, like a laugh.
