Chapter 4 - The Sound of Thunder
Hannah walked down the long, carpeted corridor of the second floor, her cheek burning where Vivien’s ring had scratched her skin, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped war drum.
She didn't stop at the kitchen. She didn't stop at the linen closet.
She walked straight down the grand marble staircase, past two confused guards standing in the foyer, and pushed open the heavy oak doors of Damian’s private ground-floor bedchamber.
Damian was standing by the fireplace, his coat off, his white shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing long, muscular forearms covered in fine dark hair. He was holding a small silver earpiece in his hand, his face carved from dark, terrifying stone.
He had heard everything through the bug.
He had heard Vivien’s contract. He had heard Moretti’s promise.
And he had heard the sharp, distinct sound of Vivien’s hand striking Hannah’s cheek.
As Hannah stepped into the room, Damian turned toward her. His dark eyes locked onto the red, swollen welt rising across her left cheekbone.
The atmosphere in the room instantly turned lethal.
Carlo, who was standing by the window holding a heavy tactical shotgun, took one look at Damian’s face and stepped back three paces, knowing better than to stand in the path of the storm.
Damian walked across the room in four long, terrifying strides, stopping directly in front of Hannah.
He didn't speak. He reached out, his large, warm hand rising gently to hover half an inch from her bruised cheek, his long fingers trembling with an intense, barely contained fury that made the air around him feel like pure electricity.
“She hit you,” Damian said, his voice dropping into a register so low it sounded like grinding tectonic plates.
Hannah looked up into his fierce, dark eyes. “It doesn't matter.”
“It matters to me,” Damian whispered, his jaw clenching so hard a muscle jumped beneath his tanned skin. “No one touches you in this house. No one.”
Hannah felt a strange, intoxicating warmth spread through her chest—a feeling of absolute protection she hadn't experienced since her father was alive.
“The power-of-attorney paper is on the table,” Hannah said, forcing her mind back to the mission. “She’s signing it right now. Moretti has four men inside the room. Bruno is at the French doors.”
Damian drew his hand back, his fingers closing into a heavy, iron fist at his side.
He turned to Carlo.
“Is the south perimeter locked down?”
“Every gate is chained, boss,” Carlo replied, his face grim and ready. “My eight men are positioned at the bottom of the service stairs. Nobody leaves the blue suite alive unless you say so.”
Damian reached out to the table, picked up a heavy gold watch, and strapped it around his left wrist. He picked up his shoulder holster, sliding his arms through the leather straps, resting a heavy, silver-plated Magnum .44 revolver under his left arm.
He looked down at Hannah.
“Stay in this room,” Damian commanded softly. “Lock the heavy bolts from the inside. Do not open the door for anyone except Carlo or me.”
Hannah looked at the massive gun under his arm, then into his dark, relentless eyes.
“You’re going up there alone?” she asked, her voice tight.
Damian offered her that same cold, terrifying smile—the smile of a predator that had finally been released from its cage.
“I’m not going up there to negotiate, Hannah,” Damian said quietly. “I’m going up there to collect my estate.”
He turned, walked toward the double doors, and pushed them open.
Carlo followed him into the corridor, carrying the shotgun at his side.
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Hannah stood in the center of the quiet room, watching the two men disappear into the dim light of the hallway. She heard the heavy brass bolts of the outer doors slide into place, leaving her alone with the rain beating against the high glass windows.
She walked to the window, pressed her forehead against the cool glass, and waited for the sound of thunder.
