Chapter 6 - The Broken Monster
Grant gasped for air, his eyes rolling back in his head, his hands clawing uselessly at Damon's iron grip around his throat.
"Damon, stop!" I called out, taking a step forward. "Don't ruin your life over him! He's not worth it!"
Damon held Grant pinned against the glass for three more terrifying seconds. His dark eyes were blazing with a pure, unbridled fury that revealed the true mafia Don beneath the polished corporate executive suit.
Slowly, deliberately, Damon relaxed his grip, allowing Grant to collapse onto the hardwood floor, coughing hysterically and gasping for oxygen.
Damon stood over him like an ancient judge, pulling a pair of leather gloves from his pocket and slowly pulling them onto his hands.
"The federal prosecutors are waiting downstairs in the lobby, Grant," Damon said coldly, looking down at the broken man on his floor. "They have the full paper trail from your floor safe, including your signatures on the Jersey wire transfers. You are going to spend the next fifteen years in a maximum-security federal prison."
Grant looked up, his face pale as paper, tears of pathetic self-pity leaking from his eyes. "Please... Damon... don't do this... I have nothing left..."
"You have fifteen years to reflect on how you treated women, Grant," Damon replied flatly.
He motioned to the two security guards standing at the door. "Take this garbage downstairs and hand him over to the FBI."
The guards dragged Grant out of the office by his arms, his pathetic pleas echoing down the quiet hallway until the heavy glass doors clicked shut.
Silence returned to the massive corner office.
Damon stood near the window, his shoulders rising and falling as he slowly removed his leather gloves. He turned his head to look at me, a flicker of rare concern crossing his hard features.
"Are you alright, Maya?" he asked softly.
I stood near my desk, staring at the empty doorway where my tormentor of twelve years had just been dragged away in handcuffs. The nightmare that had ruled my childhood, my teenage years, and my early adulthood was officially over.
I felt a sudden, uncontrollable wave of emotion wash over me. Tears spilled over my eyelashes, but they weren't tears of fear.
They were tears of pure, overwhelming freedom.
Damon crossed the room in three long strides, stopping right in front of me. He didn't hesitate; he wrapped his long, broad arms around my shoulders and pulled me gently against his chest.
I buried my face into his dark suit jacket, soaking the fine wool with my tears, my hands gripping the lapels of his coat as I wept for the twelve-year-old girl who used to hide in her closet while dinner plates smashed against the kitchen wall.
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Damon held me firmly, his large hand resting against the back of my head, stroking my hair with unbelievable tenderness.
"It's over, Maya," Damon whispered against my hair, his voice deep and steady as a rock. "He can never touch you again. I promise you."
