Chapter 7 - The Trap Begins to Close
Four days passed in quiet, peaceful tranquility inside the Beacon Hill estate.
For Adriana, it felt like stepped into a different world. She spent her mornings walking through the private sunlit gardens, her afternoons reading in the library, and her evenings enjoying long, quiet dinners with Damon.
They spoke about Eli—not with the suffocating grief of the past six months, but with warm, fondness, remembering his terrible jokes, his infectious laugh, and his absolute devotion to the people he cared about.
For the first time in five years, Damon found himself laughing. The cold, impenetrable fortress he had built around his heart was slowly beginning to crack, revealing a warmth he had thought died long ago.
However, outside the high brick walls, the storm was gathering speed.
On Friday afternoon, Dominic walked into Damon’s private study, locking the door behind him.
“Marcus Marquetti just met with Liam O'Connor at a warehouse near the Chelsea docks,” Dominic reported quietly. “Marquetti gave O'Connor fifty thousand dollars in cash and a map of our private delivery routes.”
Damon didn't look up from his desk, where he was reviewing a trust fund document he had drafted for Eli’s unborn son. “They think they’re being subtle?”
“No,” Dominic replied. “They’re desperate. O'Connor’s men are planning an hit tonight. They know you usually travel in a two-car convoy from St. Cordova back to Beacon Hill at ten o'clock.”
Damon leaned back in his chair, a cold, calculating smile spreading across his face. “They think I’m going to be in the car.”
“Yes,” Dominic confirmed. “They’re setting up an ambush at the intersection of Commercial Street and Atlantic Avenue. They’re bringing four heavy vehicles, automatic weapons, and RPGs. They want to kill you in the street, claim the docks, and then move on this house to secure the girl.”
Damon stood up, walking toward the large wall map of Boston hanging behind his desk.
“They’ve taken the bait,” Damon said, his voice dropping into a register of supreme tactical authority. “They think I’m distracted by the girl. They think grief and sentimentality have made me weak.”
“What are your orders, boss?” Dominic asked, his hands flexing near his sidearm.
“Let them set up the ambush,” Damon commanded calmly. “Send the empty decoy convoy down Commercial Street at nine-fifty. As soon as O'Connor’s men reveal their positions to attack the decoy... seal both ends of the street.”
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Dominic’s eyes flashed with fierce approval. “And what about Liam O'Connor?”
“I will handle Liam O'Connor myself,” Damon said, reaching into his desk drawer and pulling out a silver-plated Colt .45—the very weapon Eli had given him on his thirtieth birthday. “It’s time to settle Eli’s account.”
