Chapter 7 - The Peace Summit
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The news that Tyler had sold me to the Russian mob ignited a fury inside me that eclipsed my fear. He hadn't just broken my wrist six years ago; he had traded my life for a paycheck.
By the time the weekend arrived, the estate was completely locked down. But Damian was not a man who hid behind steel shutters. He believed that absolute power required absolute visibility.
"Tonight, we are hosting a dinner," Damian announced, walking into my suite as I finished my morning coffee. "The heads of the three minor families in Chicago are arriving at eight. We need to project unshakeable stability. If they smell blood in the water, they will align with the Volkovs."
"You want me to serve them?" I asked instinctively, old habits dying hard.
Damian’s eyes darkened. "I want you to sit at my right hand."
Panic flared in my chest. "Damian, I don't know how to navigate a mafia peace summit. I don't know the rules. I'll make a mistake."
"The only rule you need to know is that you belong to me," Damian said softly, crossing the room to stand before me. He reached out, his large hands gently resting on my shoulders. "You do not pour the wine. You do not lower your eyes. You look at them with the exact same fire you used when you slapped me in the dining room. You show them that the woman sitting beside Damian Romano is untouchable."
I swallowed hard, nodding slowly.
When eight o'clock arrived, I stood at the top of the grand marble staircase. I wore a stunning, floor-length emerald green gown from the new wardrobe, the silk clinging to my curves like liquid armor. My hair was swept into an elegant updo, and a delicate diamond necklace—a gift Damian had casually left on my vanity—glittered at my throat.
Damian waited at the bottom of the stairs. He wore a bespoke, razor-sharp black tuxedo. When he looked up and saw me, the breath visibly left his lungs. The terrifying boss completely vanished, replaced by a man looking at the only thing in the world he truly worshipped.
I descended the stairs, placing my hand in his. He lifted my knuckles to his lips, his dark eyes burning with intense, unapologetic hunger.
"You are magnificent," he murmured, his voice a low rumble.
He led me into the dining room. The shattered chair had been replaced, the bullet hole in the wall perfectly repaired. Three powerful, dangerous older men sat around the mahogany table, flanked by their bodyguards.
When Damian walked in with me on his arm, the room went dead silent.
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"Gentlemen," Damian said smoothly, pulling out the chair directly to his right. He didn't ask me to sit; he commanded the room to acknowledge my place. "Allow me to introduce Miss Harper Ellison. She will be joining us for the evening."
I sat down, keeping my posture perfectly straight, meeting the cold, calculating stares of the syndicate bosses without blinking. The invisible maid was dead. The queen had arrived.
