Chapter 11
The heavy mahogany doors slammed open, completely shattering the serene, cinematic sunlight that had temporarily bathed the dining hall in a fragile peace. Marcus, the towering lead capo of the Hollis syndicate, strode in, his fair skin pale and slick with sudden sweat. He ignored the newly promoted Lara entirely, his frantic eyes locked solely on his Boss.
"Damian," Marcus barked, dispensing with formalities entirely. "We have a catastrophic breach at the southern shipping yards. A coordinated strike force wearing unmarked tactical gear just executed three of our logistics managers. They bypassed the outer perimeter."
Damian’s jawline, framed by extremely short, neat stubble, locked into an expression of pure, unadulterated stone. His cold, perceptive eyes did not widen in panic; they narrowed into dark, lethal slits. He did not raise his voice. He simply turned his broad shoulders fully toward his lieutenant, his tailored charcoal suit emphasizing his deeply masculine, terrifying authority.
"Are we to assume... the Sloane family... has chosen to accelerate their demise?" Damian inquired softly, the measured pauses in his deep voice dropping the temperature in the room to absolute zero.
"It’s heavily armed, professional mercenaries, Boss," Marcus confirmed rapidly. "They hit us hard and fast. They’re attempting to lock down the primary import containers."
Damian slowly turned his head back to Lara. His expression softened infinitesimally, the ruthless warlord momentarily retreating to ensure the safety of his home.
"Will you proceed... immediately... to the secure wing?" Damian asked, his gaze holding hers with an intense, proprietary focus.
Lara didn't hesitate. She recognized the sudden, explosive shift in the atmosphere. The man standing before her was about to unleash a tidal wave of violence, and she was not going to be a distraction. "I will not leave Grace's side."
May you like
Damian offered a single, respectful nod. As Lara turned and hurried toward the residential corridors, Damian walked past Marcus, his artistic, tattooed hands adjusting his cuffs.
"Prepare the heavy assault teams," Damian commanded smoothly, stepping out into the bright foyer. "We are going to the ports. I want every single mercenary bleeding out on the concrete before noon."
