Chapter 3 - The Price of Protection
When the first golden rays of dawn filtered through the tiny ventilation grilles near the ceiling, the steel shutters began their loud, automated ascent, grinding upward into the stone facade.
Hazel woke up with a sharp gasp.
She blinked, her eyes adjusting to the bright morning light. Then she realized where she was.
Her head was resting directly against Damian Romano’s broad chest. Her left hand was resting over his flat stomach, tucked beneath his arm. And Damian’s long arm was wrapped securely around her waist, holding her tight against his side.
Hazel went completely still, her heart leaping into her throat.
Damian’s dark eyes opened smoothly. He wasn't asleep; he had been awake for hours, watching the sunrise while listening to her breathe.
“Good morning, Hazel,” he said, his voice deep, smooth, and rumbling pleasantly against her ear.
Hazel scrambled backward, her face burning with a fiery, brilliant blush. “Mr. Romano! I’m so sorry! I didn't mean to—I fell asleep—I violated the rule—”
Damian sat up, unhurried, resting his forearms on his knees. “The rule was repealed at 2:00 AM.”
Before Hazel could process his words, the heavy oak doors of the study burst open.
Marco stepped into the room, his tactical vest covered in dirt, holding a bloody combat knife. He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw Hazel sitting on the sofa next to Damian, wrapped in his personal cashmere blanket.
“Boss,” Marco stammered, clearing his throat awkwardly. “The perimeter is clear. Sullivan’s team retreated after we blew up their transport trucks. But... Frankie Sullivan just sent a direct radio broadcast to the gate house.”
Damian’s expression hardened instantly into cold steel. “What did he say?”
“He knows Hazel Brooks is inside the house,” Marco reported, looking nervously at Hazel. “He says her debt was transferred to a local cartel enforcement group. He says if she isn't handed over by noon today, he’s going to strike the estate’s supply routes in Chicago.”
Hazel turned deathly pale, her hands trembling violently as she clutched the blanket to her chest. “No... no, no, no... he’s going to kill me...”
Damian stood up. He walked slowly over to Marco, taking a fresh suit jacket from the side rack and pulling it over his bandaged shoulders with calm, terrifying grace.
“Tell Frankie Sullivan,” Damian said, his voice quiet enough to make the temperature in the room plunge ten degrees, “that Hazel Brooks is no longer a maid in this house.”
Marco blinked. “Boss?”
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Damian turned back to look at Hazel. He walked over to the sofa, reaching down to offer her his hand—a hand that had dealt in violence for a decade, now open and gentle.
“She is under the personal protection of the Romano family,” Damian declared, his eyes locking onto Hazel’s frightened gaze. “And her debt is officially paid in blood.”
