Chapter 3 - The Empty Room|
Damon carried Ruby into his private office, a secure room located at the center of the estate, completely devoid of windows and reinforced with ballistic steel.
He set her down gently on the massive leather sofa and handed her a glass of water.
“I need you to stay right here with Marcus for a few minutes,” Damon said, keeping his voice steady and calm. “I’m going to go find Mommy.”
Ruby gripped the glass with both hands, her dark eyes wide.
“Will you bring her back?”
“I promise.”
Damon stepped out into the hallway, his expression hardening the moment the door clicked shut behind him. Two of his most trusted tactical operators, men dressed in plain black suits but armed for a war, fell into step behind him.
They moved quickly through the sprawling Arizona estate, exiting the main house and crossing the manicured courtyard toward the West staff residence. The desert sun was blinding, but Damon felt only ice in his veins.
The door to Selena’s small apartment was slightly ajar.
Damon drew his weapon, motioning for his men to flank the entrance. He pushed the door open with his foot.
The living room was in complete disarray.
A lamp had been shattered on the floor. The coffee table was overturned. The smell of cheap men's cologne hung heavily in the air, masking the usual scent of vanilla and lavender that always surrounded Selena.
“Clear,” one of his men called from the tiny kitchen.
“Clear in the bedroom,” the second man echoed.
Damon stepped inside, his boots crunching on broken glass. He walked into the bedroom. The closet doors were open, clothes pulled off their hangers in a frantic rush. Ruby’s small bed was unmade.
On the nightstand, pinned beneath a framed photograph of Selena and Ruby, was a folded piece of paper.
Damon grabbed it. The handwriting was erratic, written in a panic.
Damon. Victor Lane sold you out to the Sinaloa boys. They are coming for the books. He found me listening at the door. He said if I warn you, he'll kill Ruby. Keep her safe. Please.
Damon crushed the note in his fist, his knuckles turning white. Victor Lane. His oldest adviser. The man who had mentored him after his father died.
May you like
“Boss?” one of the guards asked, seeing Damon’s expression.
“Victor took her,” Damon growled, slipping the gun back into his holster. “He thinks she’s his leverage. He’s about to find out how wrong he is.”
