Chapter 8 - The Voice Returns
The return to the Valente estate late that night felt like waking up from a multi-year nightmare into brilliant sunlight.
Oliver had not stopped talking.
His voice was hoarse at first, raspy from months of disuse, like an engine turning over after a long winter. But once the floodgates opened, the words tumbled out in an eager, beautiful stream. Sitting in the back of the armored Maybach between Emily and Damen, Oliver held Chloe’s hand while chattering endlessly about the Christmas tree, the size of Santa’s boots, and how Dasher needed a cup of water before bedtime.
“And Dasher says thank you, Emily,” Oliver whispered, his head resting against Emily’s emerald-clad shoulder. “For his ear. He told me it doesn't hurt anymore.”
Emily smoothed his dark hair, her throat aching with overwhelming love. “You’re very welcome, sweetheart. Dasher is a very brave reindeer.”
Damen sat across from them in the rear-facing seat. He hadn't taken his eyes off his son for a single second during the thirty-minute drive. Every syllable that left Oliver’s mouth was a miracle, a million-dollar treasure that money could never have bought.
Yet beneath Damen’s overwhelming joy, the cold instincts of a syndicate leader were already churning.
What had happened at the Drake Hotel was public. Two hundred witnesses had seen Damen Valente weeping on the floor. They had seen his devotion to his son, his undeniable bond with Emily, and the tiny girl who had loudly asked for him as her father.
In the underworld, love was not viewed as a blessing. It was viewed as a target.
When they arrived at the estate, the house felt warmer than it ever had. Tiny had already built a roaring fire in the great stone fireplace, and hot chocolate with towering piles of whipped cream was waiting on the kitchen island.
After the children were thoroughly tucked into bed—Oliver demanding that his door remain wide open so he could hear Chloe’s gentle breathing across the hall—Emily walked down to the kitchen to help clean up the mugs.
She found Damen leaning against the marble counter, his bow tie undone, holding a glass of amber scotch.
He looked up as she walked in. The raw, vulnerable emotion from the ballroom was still burning in his amber eyes.
“They’re asleep,” Emily said softly, stepping closer. “Oliver fell asleep mid-sentence asking if reindeer eat carrots or cookies.”
A genuine, breathtaking smile illuminated Damen’s face. “Carrots. Isabella always told him cookies made them too heavy to fly.”
It was the first time Damen had spoken Isabella’s name without agony tearing his voice apart.
Emily stepped up to him, her expression tender. “You were incredible tonight, Damen. The way you held him… you gave him the safety he needed to speak.”
“I didn't give him anything, Emily,” Damen said, setting his scotch down and taking her hands into his. His touch was warm, commanding, and infinitely gentle. “You did this. You walked into this tomb with your fierce little girl, and you brought light back into every dark corner. You healed my son.”
Emily swallowed hard, looking down at their joined hands. “Chloe’s wish… at the tree. I’m so sorry, Damen. She doesn't understand the world. She doesn't know who you are, or what society expects—”
“Do you think I care about society?” Damen interrupted, his voice dropping into a low, passionate rumble. He stepped closer, eliminating the space between them until she was pressed gently against the kitchen island. “Do you think I care what those hypocrites in their tuxedos think?”
Emily looked up into his eyes, her breath catching. “Damen…”
“When she pointed at me,” Damen whispered, his hand rising to cup her cheek, his thumb brushing the sensitive skin below her lip, “it was the first time in thirteen months I felt like my life was worth living again. I don't want to be a ghost anymore, Emily. I don't want to live in this house alone.”
“Damen, we come from two completely different worlds,” Emily breathed, her heart pounding violently against her ribs. “You are the king of this city. I am a woman running from a ruined past, with no money, no name—”
“I don't need your name,” Damen murmured, his eyes blazing with fierce conviction. “I have enough power for ten lifetimes. I have enough money to buy this city three times over. The only thing I don't have… is you.”
He leaned down and kissed her.
It was not a gentle brush of lips. It was a deep, possessive, intoxicating claiming that stole the air straight from Emily’s lungs. All the unspoken tension of the past weeks—the stolen glances in hallways, the late-night tea in his study, the shared terror in the safe room—ignited into an all-consuming flame.
Emily wrapped her arms around his neck, sinking into his strength, kissing him back with a fierce, desperate passion she hadn't known she possessed. Damen groaned low in his throat, his hands gripping her waist, lifting her slightly as he pulled her flush against his body.
For a long, breathless moment, the world ceased to exist. There were no syndicates, no past tragedies, no social boundaries. Just a man and a woman finding salvation in the dark.
When he finally pulled back, resting his forehead against hers, they were both breathing heavily.
“Stay with me, Emily,” Damen whispered against her lips. “Not as my housekeeper. As my equal. As my wife.”
Before Emily could answer, the kitchen phone shrilled with a piercing, violent ring.
Damen’s jaw tightened. He picked up the wall receiver, his voice cold. “What is it, Cosmo?”
“Boss,” Cosmo’s voice came through the line, tight with dread. “We have a problem. Marcus Vance—Julian Vance’s older brother—just landed at O'Hare from New York. He brought forty seasoned mercenaries with him. And… boss, someone from the hotel sold him information.”
Damen’s eyes narrowed into slits of lethal ice. “What information?”
May you like
“He knows about the girl,” Cosmo said grimly. “He knows about Emily and Chloe. He knows they are your weak spot. Marcus Vance just declared war. He’s coming to burn the estate to the ground before Christmas morning.”
***
