Chapter 3 - The Blood Lineage
Damon didn't flinch, but his grip on the hidden gun tightened until his fingers went numb.
“Leo,” Damon said, his voice terrifyingly calm. “How did you find her?”
“I didn't find her—I was watching you,” Leo breathed, closing the door behind him and locking the deadbolt with a frantic flick of his wrist. “I’ve been tracking Kozlov’s communications for three months from a burner setup in Quincy. An hour ago, an encrypted message went out from inside this building. Someone sent a photograph of Adriana standing among the broken glass to Kozlov’s lieutenant.”
Adriana gasped, her hand flying to her stomach.
Damon’s eyes darkened to pitch black. The photograph could only have been taken in those few seconds right after the slap—when the entire restaurant was frozen, when every waiter, patron, and guard was staring at the floor.
Someone in the dining room had taken a picture and sent it straight to the Russian mob.
“Julian,” Damon muttered under his breath.
“It wasn't just a photo, Damon,” Leo said, stepping closer and thrusting the Manila folder into Damon’s hands. “Look at the autopsy reports. Look at the police ballistics from the explosion six months ago.”
Damon took the folder with one hand, his eyes never leaving the locked door. He flipped it open with his thumb. Inside were crime scene photos, forensic lab sheets, and a private medical examiner’s secondary analysis that had never been filed with the Boston Police Department.
“The car bomb didn't kill Eli,” Leo said, his voice breaking with a horrific mixture of grief and anger. “Eli was shot twice in the back of the head before the bomb was detonated. The fire was just meant to burn the evidence.”
Adriana let out a strangled cry, burying her face in her hands. The awful truth hit her like a physical blow—her husband hadn't died in a blind fire; he had been executed by someone he knew, someone who had stood close enough to put two bullets in the back of his skull.
Damon stared at the forensic report. The ballistics signature was recorded as a sub-caliber round—a .22 LR with a custom lead core.
A quiet, specialized weapon designed for close-range execution without noise.
Damon remembered four years ago, when Julian had bought a custom, suppressed Ruger .22 for “discreet executive protection.”
The rage that had been simmering in Damon’s chest broke its banks, turning into a cold, absolute resolve. He closed the folder neatly and set it on his desk.
“Leo,” Damon said, turning to Eli’s brother. “Take Adriana out through the old wine cellar tunnel. It leads directly to the subterranean parking garage beneath the hotel next door. My driver, Michael, is waiting in a black armored Suburban. He doesn't take orders from Julian. He takes orders only from me.”
“What about you?” Adriana cried, reaching out to catch Damon’s sleeve as he walked past her. “Damon, don't! If Julian knows, he won't be alone!”
Damon looked down at her small hand gripping his coat. He took her hand gently, uncurling her fingers, and pressed Eli’s watch back into her palm.
“Eli gave his life because he thought I was worth saving,” Damon said softly, his scar pale against his dark skin. “I am going to finish what he started. I am going to tear Kozlov’s network out of this city, root and stem. And when I am done, your child will grow up in a city where no one ever makes you hide again.”
He looked at Leo. “Get her to the safehouse in Berkshire. Don't stop for gas. Don't turn on a cell phone. Move.”
Leo nodded firmly, pulling a small revolver from his coat. “Come on, Adriana.”
Adriana hesitated, her amber eyes searching Damon’s face as if trying to memorize it. “Live, Damon,” she whispered. “Please. Eli lost his life. Don't let him lose his brother too.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Damon replied.
He watched as Leo lifted the rug near the bookshelf, unlocked the hidden iron trapdoor, and guided Adriana down into the dark, stone stairwell.
As soon as the trapdoor clicked shut and the rug was pulled back into place, Damon turned around.
He walked back to his desk, picked up his glass of bourbon, and tossed it back in one smooth motion. Then he reached into his desk drawer, pulled out a second magazine for his Kimber .45, slapped it into the well, and chambered a round.
He walked over to the office door, unlocked the deadbolt, and pulled it wide open.
Standing in the dimly lit hallway, phone in hand, his face pale in the shadow of the velvet curtains, was Julian.
Julian looked down at the gun in Damon’s hand, then up at Damon’s eyes.
The lie was over.
May you like
“She’s gone, isn't she?” Julian asked, his voice flat, stripped of all the loyalty he had faked for ten years.
“She’s gone,” Damon said, stepping out into the hallway, his boots making no sound on the runner rug. “And now it’s just you and me, Julian. Let’s talk about Eli.”
