Chapter 6 - the serpent strikes
The bells of Saint Jude’s Church tolled 7:00 AM across the snow-covered streets of northern Chicago. The sky was a pale, icy blue, washed clean by the morning light.
Damian’s black SUV pulled up along the curb opposite the Gothic stone church. Damian sat in the passenger seat, his black overcoat unbuttoned just enough to grant clear access to the custom sidearm tucked against his ribs. Kane sat behind the wheel.
In the back seat, Beatrice wore a plain wool coat and a dark scarf wrapped loosely around her head, looking like any other parishioner arriving for early morning mass.
"Five minutes," Damian said, turning to look back at her. "You go in through the side entrance, retrieve the key from Father Thomas’s desk, and get the lockbox from the vestry closet. If anyone looks at you sideways, you walk straight out. Understood?"
Beatrice nodded, her jaw set firm. "Father Thomas knows me. I've helped clean the altar every Sunday for three years. He won't question me."
Damian reached out and placed his large, warm hand over hers. Her skin was cool, but she didn't pull away. "Beatrice. Look at me."
She met his piercing eyes.
"No piece of paper is worth your life," Damian said, his voice dropping to a gravelly, protective hum. "If something feels wrong, you leave it."
A gentle, fleeting warmth touched her lips. "I'll be right back, Damian."
It was the first time she had ever called him by his first name. The sound of it on her tongue sent an unexpected tremor through his chest.
She stepped out into the crisp morning air, her boots crunching softly on the fresh snow. Damian watched her walk up the stone steps, her figure graceful and resolute, before disappearing through the heavy oak doors.
"She’s a rare one, boss," Kane commented quietly from the front seat, checking his side mirrors. "Most people run from this life. She’s walking right into the center of it."
"She isn't doing it for the life," Damian murmured. "She’s doing it to protect people she cares about."
Four minutes passed in agonizing silence. The church bells stopped ringing.
Suddenly, Damian’s tactical comm crackled in Kane’s ear. Kane sat up straight. "Boss, we've got movement on the south perimeter. Two black sedans just turned the corner without lights."
Damian’s blood ran cold. "Lorenzo."
Before Kane could put the SUV into drive, the rear side door of Saint Jude’s burst open. Beatrice stumbled out onto the snow, clutching a heavy metal lockbox against her chest. Behind her, two burly men in heavy charcoal coats stepped out, their hands buried inside their jacket pockets.
They were Lorenzo’s personal enforcers.
"Damian!" Beatrice’s voice carried through the frigid morning air, desperate and shrill.
Damian didn't hesitate. He kicked his door open before the SUV had even completely stopped. He moved with explosive, predatory speed across the snow-covered pavement.
The two enforcers spotted him immediately. The taller one reached inside his coat, but Damian closed the thirty-yard distance before the man could draw. Damian slammed his shoulder into the first man’s chest with the force of a battering ram, sending him crashing backward against the stone wall of the church. The man’s weapon clattered uselessly onto the frozen steps.
The second enforcer lunged toward Beatrice, reaching out a gloved hand to seize the lockbox.
"Don't touch her!" Damian roared.
Damian grabbed the man by the collar of his heavy coat, spinning him violently around and driving him face-first into the wrought-iron railing with a sickening clang of metal. The enforcer crumpled to his knees, dazed and disoriented.
Damian spun around, pulling Beatrice behind his broad frame, shielding her completely with his body. His sidearm was drawn, aimed squarely at the first enforcer who was scrambling backward on the ice, clutching his bruised ribs.
"Tell Lorenzo," Damian said, his voice dropping into a register so dark and lethal the enforcer froze in terror, "that if he ever sends his dogs near this woman again, I won't just kill him. I will erase every trace of his family from this continent."
"Boss... please," the man wheezed, hands raised high in surrender. "We were just told to secure the box. Lorenzo said she stole it."
"Get out of my sight," Damian commanded.
The two men scrambled to their feet and sprinted down the alley, abandoning their vehicles.
Damian turned to Beatrice. She was trembling violently, her chest heaving, the heavy lockbox clutched tight against her burgundy dress. She looked up at him with wide, shocked eyes.
"Are you hurt?" Damian demanded, his hands immediately checking her shoulders, her arms, his fingers gentle despite his towering fury. "Did they touch you?"
"No," she breathed, her voice cracking. "No, I'm okay. I have it. Damian, I have it."
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Damian looked down at the metal box in her hands. Then he looked at her pale, beautiful face, flushed rosy from the cold and the adrenaline. Without thinking, Damian pulled her into his chest.
Beatrice buried her face against the heavy wool of his overcoat, her arms wrapping around his waist. For a long, suspended moment in the falling snow, Chicago ceased to exist. There were no syndicates, no rivalries, no twelve years of betrayal—only the steady, thunderous beat of Damian’s heart beneath her cheek, and the fierce, absolute vow of a man who would tear down the city before letting harm touch her.
