Chapter 3 - The Ghost of Eli Voss
“Put me down!” Adriana gasped, her hands pushing weakly against his hard chest as he carried her through the private back hallway of the restaurant. “Damon, stop it! Put me down right now!”
Damon ignored her protests completely. He carried her up a private winding flight of stairs that led to his personal executive suite above the restaurant—a high-security apartment featuring dark wood paneling, plush leather sofas, a floor-to-ceiling fireplace, and a private medical suite.
He kicked open the heavy oak door, walked into the living room, and gently laid her down onto the soft, oversized leather sofa. He reached over, grabbed a rolled cashmere throw blanket from the armrest, and draped it carefully over her legs and round belly.
“Stay still,” Damon commanded, walking quickly into the adjoining bathroom and returning with a wet, warm cloth and a medical first-aid kit.
He knelt beside the sofa, reaching up to gently remove her fogged glasses, setting them on the glass coffee table. Then, with painstaking gentleness, he pressed the warm cloth to the cut on her cheek, dabbing away the thin bead of blood.
Adriana winced, flinching away from his touch, her amber eyes burning with anger and exhaustion. “I don't need your pity, Damon.”
“It’s not pity,” Damon said, his hand remaining steady as he applied a small sterile strip over the cut. “It’s responsibility.”
“I don't belong to your world anymore!” she yelled, her voice breaking as she pulled the cashmere blanket tighter around her shoulders. “Eli is dead! The moment they buried him, I was done with the Calas syndicate, the threats, the bodyguards, and the blood! I left so my baby could have a normal life!”
Damon paused, sitting back on his heels, his steel-gray eyes fixed on her face. The pain in his chest was raw, unhealed, and deeply jagged.
“You disappeared from the hospital six months ago without a word,” Damon said quietly. “You changed your name. You turned off your phone. You abandoned your apartment in Southie. Do you have any idea what I went through trying to find you? I had fifty men searching every town from here to Montreal.”
“I knew you were searching!” Adriana cried, tears finally pouring down her cheeks. “That’s why I worked so hard to hide! I knew if you found me, you’d pull me right back into the life that killed my husband!”
Damon winced as if she had slapped him.
Eli Voss had not just been an enforcer in Damon’s organization—he had been his childhood friend, his brother, his shadow. They had grown up together in the same grimy orphanages of South Boston, fought the same street gangs, and built an empire together. When a rival Irish faction had tried to ambush Damon’s car six months ago in an underground parking garage, Eli had thrown himself in front of the submachine-gun fire, taking four rounds to the chest to give Damon time to draw his weapon and clear the room.
Eli had died in the back of an ambulance, holding Damon’s hand, his last words choked through blood: Take care of my girl. Protect my baby.
“Eli died saving my life,” Damon said, his voice thick with unexpressed grief. “Every breath I take is a breath he bought for me with his blood. You think I could just let his pregnant wife live on the streets, sweeping floors for peanuts, getting abused by trash like Celeste Marquetti?”
“I wasn't on the streets!” Adriana argued fiercely, wiping her eyes with the back of her sleeve. “I had a small apartment in Dorchester! I was working two jobs! I was earning my own money, paying my own rent, and preparing for my baby without relying on mob money!”
“You were starving yourself,” Damon countered, his eyes sweeping over her thin face, her hollow collarbones, and her worn-out shoes. “Look at you, Adriana! You’re eight months pregnant and you look like you weigh a hundred pounds! Your hands are covered in chemical burns from cleaning products! Is this what Eli wanted for you? You think Eli would be proud seeing you sleep in a damp basement apartment in Dorchester while I live in a mansion in Beacon Hill?”
“Eli wanted our child to be safe!” Adriana shouted back, her voice echoing off the high wood-paneled walls. “He didn't want him surrounded by guns, armored cars, and men who die at thirty-five! If I stayed with you, my child would grow up learning how to spot snipers instead of learning how to ride a bicycle! I couldn't do it, Damon! I couldn't look at you without seeing the night Eli died!”
The room went dead quiet.
The words hung in the air like a physical barrier between them. Damon stared at her, his face pale, the scar above his brow stark against his skin.
He bowed his head, looking down at his hands— hands that held immense wealth and power, but could never bring back his brother.
“I know,” Damon whispered softly. “I see his face every time I close my eyes too.”
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Adriana’s anger suddenly lost its sharp edge, replaced by a deep, suffocating sorrow. She covered her face with her hands, her shoulders shaking violently as six months of suppressed grief, terror, and physical exhaustion finally burst through her defenses.
Damon didn't try to touch her again. He simply sat on the floor beside the sofa, resting his back against the leather frame, watching over her in the quiet room as the rain began to lash against the high glass windows outside.
