Chapter 6 - THE STOLEN ARTIFACT AND THE ULTIMATUM
Two days after the breach, the tension inside the Winnetka estate reached a boiling point. The morning papers carried cryptic headlines about a massive warehouse fire on the South Side—a retaliatory strike delivered by Damian's enforcers while Chicago slept. But inside the house, the war became deeply personal.
Natalie was sitting with Ava in the sunroom, helping her paint watercolors, when Mrs. Gable hurried in, her face drained of color.
“Mr. DeLuca needs you in the study immediately, Ms. Carter,” the housekeeper said, her voice shaking slightly.
Natalie's stomach tightened. She gently handed Ava her paintbrush. “Keep painting, sweetie. I'll be right back.”
When Natalie pushed open the heavy oak doors of the study, she found Damian standing by the floor-to-ceiling windows, staring out at the rain-slicked gardens. But he wasn't alone. Standing near the desk was a man in an expensive Italian suit with a bruised cheek and a terrified expression—one of Damian's regional warehouse managers.
“Look at her,” Damian said without turning around.
The manager looked at Natalie, sweating profusely. “Mr. DeLuca, I swear to God I didn't take it—”
“Shut up,” Damian commanded quietly. He turned around, his face a mask of cold fury. He walked over to the desk and picked up a small, ornate silver music box inlaid with emeralds. It was Ava's favorite possession, one her late mother had given her before she passed away. “This was stolen from Ava's room this morning while you were supposed to be securing the east wing corridors.”
“I was at my post!” the manager pleaded, his voice cracking. “Someone slipped something into my coffee—I passed out for twenty minutes—”
“Marcone's message,” Damian finished, stepping closer. He tossed a folded piece of parchment onto the desk.
Natalie stepped forward and glanced at the note. Written in jagged handwriting were three simple words: YOUR DAUGHTER'S TOY FOR YOUR LIFE. MIDNIGHT. UNION STATION.
“He wants a face-to-face,” Natalie said, looking up at Damian. “It's a trap.”
“Of course it's a trap,” Damian replied, his voice chillingly calm. “Sal Marcone thinks he can lure me out into the open, assassinate me, and take control of the entire DeLuca shipping network before dawn.”
“Then you can't go,” Natalie said, her voice rising with urgent panic. “If you walk into Union Station alone, they'll execute you.”
“If I don't go, Marcone will send hit squads after this estate every single night until there's nothing left of my family,” Damian said, his eyes locking onto hers with a fierce, unbreakable resolve. He reached out and gently placed the silver music box back into Natalie's hands. “Keep Ava safe. If I don't return by 3:00 AM, Victor has orders to activate the private jet on the airstrip in Gary, Indiana. You take Ava and my financial clearances, and you disappear into Canada. Do you understand me?”
Natalie stared at the music box, then up into Damian's dark, haunted eyes. All the warnings, all the crime syndicate talk, all the terror of the past week crystallized into a single heartbreaking truth: the ruthless billionaire standing before her wasn't just a mob boss; he was a desperate father willing to walk into a slaughterhouse to protect his child.
“No,” Natalie said softly, gripping the music box tightly.
May you like
Damian frowned. “No?”
“You're not going alone,” Natalie said, her voice steadying with a sudden, reckless surge of courage. “If Marcone wants to negotiate with the man protecting his daughter, he's going to need someone who knows how to spot a panic attack in a crowd. I'm coming with you.”
