Chapter 2 - The Fall of the Marquetti Empire
Celeste Marquetti laughed, though the sound was noticeably thinner, laced with an edge of high-pitched nervous tension.
“Damon, this is absurd,” Celeste said, taking another step closer, her diamond heels clicking against the stone floor. “I came here tonight for a serious high-level conference regarding our family’s restructuring portfolio. My father is sitting in his study right now waiting for my call to confirm the loan guarantees. You’re letting a careless, low-wage employee distract you from a forty-million-dollar deal.”
Damon slowly turned to face her.
He didn't raise his hand. He didn't raise his voice. He simply stood there, towering over her, his dark eyes turned to absolute ice. The sheer aura of lethal authority radiating off him forced Celeste to take a involuntary step backward, her breath hitching in her throat.
“You came here to beg,” Damon said softly.
Celeste’s face flushed a deep, ugly red. “What?”
“You didn't come here for a partnership,” Damon continued, his tone dangerously measured, echoing off the high ceilings so every high-society couple in the room could hear every syllable. “You came here because your father’s company is bankrupt. You came to ask me to throw forty million dollars into a black hole so you could keep buying five-thousand-dollar silk dresses and acting like royalty in a city you no longer own.”
“Damon! How dare you speak to me like—”
“You sat at my table, drank my wine, and walked into my house,” Damon cut her off coldly, stepping closer until he was inches from her face. “And then you laid your hands on a woman who is carrying a child.”
Celeste tried to maintain her haughty posture, but her lower lip began to quiver under his intense glare. “She spilled wine on me! She was clumsy! It was an accident!”
“You struck her,” Damon said. “You knew she was vulnerable, you knew she couldn't fight back, and you thought your family's name would shield you from the consequences.”
“I didn't know she was someone you knew!” Celeste cried defensively.
“It doesn't matter who she is,” Damon spat, his voice dropping into a lethal register that sent chills through every server in the room. “You knew she was human. And that should have been enough.”
Damon raised his hand slightly, snapping his fingers once toward the front entrance.
Two massive men in charcoal suits—his personal security detail, who had been standing silently near the heavy velvet entryway curtains—instantly moved forward. Their heavy footsteps echoed in unison across the floor.
“Take Miss Marquetti outside,” Damon ordered, without turning to look at them. “Revoke her valet access. She is banned permanently from every property, hotel, and venue affiliated with my name.”
Celeste’s eyes widened in utter disbelief. “You can't ban me! My father is Marcus Marquetti! Do you have any idea what this will do to our stock price if word gets out that you threw me out of St. Cordova?”
“As of tomorrow morning,” Damon said smoothly, pulling a sleek black smartphone from his inner pocket, “I am purchasing your family’s defaulted bank notes from the First National Syndicate. By noon, I will own your father's hotels. By three o'clock, I will dismantle them and liquidate the land.”
Celeste’s face drained of every drop of color. She looked as though she had been struck across the chest with a sledgehammer. “No... Damon, please! You can't do that! It will ruin us! We’ll lose everything!”
“You should pray that is all you lose,” Damon whispered, his eyes narrowing. “If I ever see your face near this woman again, I won't just ruin your family financially. I will erase your name from this city.”
The two bodyguards stepped up beside Celeste, grabbing her arms firmly but professionally.
“This way, ma’am,” the lead guard said coldly.
“Damon! Wait! I’m sorry!” Celeste shrieked as she was dragged backward toward the double oak doors, her dignity completely shattered, her heels dragging against the marble floor. “I’m sorry! Tell her I’m sorry!”
Damon didn't even glance back as the heavy oak doors opened and slammed shut, cutting off her panicked screaming and plunging the restaurant back into suffocating silence.
Damon turned his back on the dining room. He looked down at Adriana, who was clutching her stomach, her face pale, her body shaking so violently she looked ready to collapse into the glass at any second.
“Clear the room,” Damon commanded the floor manager quietly.
“Sir?” the manager stammered. “The dining room is fully booked—”
“Clear the room,” Damon repeated, his voice leaving zero room for negotiation. “Comp every meal. Tell them the restaurant is closed for the night. Get them out. Now.”
Within four minutes, the security detail had politely but firmly ushered every single patron out onto the rain-slicked pavement of Boylston Street. The heavy velvet curtains were drawn, the front doors locked, and the grand chandeliers dimmed to a low, warm amber glow.
Adriana tried to take a step toward the kitchen service door, her fingers digging into the edge of a mahogany table for balance. “I... I have to finish my shift. I need the hours, Damon. Please—”
May you like
Her knees suddenly buckled.
Before she could hit the floor, Damon moved with terrifying speed, catching her beneath her shoulders and lifting her effortlessly into his arms.
