Chapter 18 - The Ghost from the Past
It was Damian.
My ex-husband. The man who had cleaned out our joint bank accounts four years ago, gambled away our savings to loan sharks in Cleveland, left me and a one-year-old baby sleeping in the back of a freezing sedan, and vanished into the criminal underworld without a trace.
“Damian,” I choked out, my voice barely a whisper as my knees began to shake.
“That’s right, sweetheart,” Damian sneered, struggling against Marcus’s grip. He spat a glob of phlegm onto the pristine patio stone. “Your loving husband. Fancy place you got here. Looks like you traded up from scrubbing hotel floors to playing house with a mob boss.”
Caleb didn't draw his gun.
He didn't shout.
He simply stepped in front of me, placing his massive frame like an impenetrable steel shield between me and the man on the ground. The temperature around Caleb dropped so rapidly I could feel the frost in the air.
“Marcus,” Caleb said, his voice terrifyingly quiet. “Who is this trash, and why is he breathing my air?”
“He hopped the perimeter fence by the old pump house, Boss,” Marcus reported grimly. “We caught him with a pair of wire cutters and a burner phone taking photos of the children’s party.”
Damian craned his neck around Caleb’s shoulder, staring directly at me. “Tell your sugar daddy to let me up, Marisol! I know who he is! I know what he does! And I know he won't want the local cops looking into how his little chief of staff got her fake resume!”
I felt a cold wave of panic wash over me. Damian didn't just want money; he wanted leverage. He knew I was vulnerable, and he saw Blackwell House as his personal ATM ticket.
“He’s my ex-husband,” I confessed to Caleb, my voice trembling as I reached out to touch Caleb’s arm. “Caleb, please... he’s dangerous. He’s connected to the Cleveland crews. He’ll—”
“Marisol,” Caleb interrupted softly. He turned his head just enough to look back at me, his stormy gray eyes completely steady. “Did you invite him here?”
“No! I haven't seen him in four years! I thought he was dead!”
“I know you didn't,” Caleb said.
He turned back around, looking down at Damian with the cold, absolute detachment of a executioner standing over a condemned man.
“You broke into my property,” Caleb said smoothly. “You threatened my staff. And you ruined my chief of staff’s afternoon coffee.”
Damian’s arrogant smirk faltered for a fraction of a second. He looked up at Caleb’s towering frame, finally realizing that he wasn't dealing with a small-time loan shark in Ohio.
“Look, man, let’s talk numbers,” Damian stammered, his bravado cracking. “Fifty grand and I walk away. You’ll never see me again. Otherwise, I go to the FBI with everything I know about Marisol’s past.”
Caleb didn't blink.
“Marcus,” Caleb called out.
“Boss?”
“Take him to the Bridgeport container.”
“No! Wait! You can’t do this!” Damian shrieked, thrashing wildly as Marcus and the other guard hoisted him up by his arms. “I’ll talk! I swear to God I’ll talk!”
“You’re welcome to talk to Vincent Rossi,” Caleb replied dryly. “I hear he’s an excellent listener.”
As Damian was dragged screaming across the manicured lawn toward the service gates, the children playing by the playhouse stopped and stared in bewildered silence.
I stood frozen on the patio, my chest heaving, the ghosts of my past finally catching up to me in the worst possible way.
Caleb turned around, taking my shaking hands in his warm, steady palms.
“He’s gone, Marisol,” Caleb said softly. “He will never touch you again. I promise you that.”
“He knows about my past,” I whispered, tears finally spilling over my eyelashes. “He’ll tell the authorities... he’ll drag me down with him.”
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Caleb reached up, gently wiping away my tears with his thumb.
“Let him try,” Caleb murmured, a fierce, protective fire burning in his dark eyes. “The FBI couldn't touch me when I had a mountain of evidence against me. They certainly won't care about a deadbeat loser from Cleveland. You are safe here, Marisol. With me.”
