Chapter 2 - The Shadow of the Prescotts
The rain had slowed to a miserable, freezing drizzle by the time Damian maneuvered Rachel and the twins out of the diner and toward the curb. He didn't care about the stares of the diners, nor did he care about the bulletproof Mercedes idling in the red zone with its hazard lights flashing.
His driver, Marcus—a veteran of both the Marines and Damian’s private security detail—jumped out of the front seat the moment he saw his boss emerge holding a sleeping little girl in one arm and guiding a wide-eyed little boy with the other. Marcus’s jaw dropped slightly when he saw Rachel, but years of training kept his mouth shut.
"Boss," Marcus said, opening the rear door. "Should I call—"
"Cancel the dinner with the Prescotts," Damian interrupted, his voice clipped and freezing cold. "Tell Senator Prescott I was called away on urgent syndicate business. And reroute us to the Rittenhouse townhouse. Not the penthouse."
Rachel froze on the sidewalk, clutching Eli’s hand so hard the boy winced. "Get us out of here, Damian. I’m not going to your house. I’m not playing house while your fiancee runs the city."
"Amelia is not my wife," Damian said, sliding into the leather interior of the sedan and pulling Eli up beside him while Marcus settled Rachel and Sophie into the opposite seats. "And as of tonight, she isn't even my fiancée."
Rachel stared at him across the spacious cabin, the soft amber interior lights catching the pale shock on her face. "You think you can just break off an alliance with the most powerful political family in Pennsylvania because you found us in a diner? Damian, Senator Prescott controls the state police, the judges, and half the federal prosecutors on the eastern seaboard. If you cross him, he will tear your entire empire down brick by brick."
"Let him try," Damian replied, his eyes fixed entirely on Rachel. "Let him send his judges and his prosecutors. For three years, I ran an empire because I had nothing left to lose. Now I have everything back."
The ride to the Rittenhouse Square townhouse was conducted in heavy, breathless silence. Eli had fallen asleep against Damian’s shoulder within five minutes of the car moving, his tiny hand curled into the lapel of Damian’s wet tuxedo jacket. Damian sat perfectly still, afraid to move a muscle, staring down at the crown of dark hair against his chest. It was the first time in three years his heart didn't feel like a dead weight in his chest.
When the armored sedan pulled through the wrought-iron security gates of the private courtyard, the heavy oak doors of the townhouse swung open. A terrified-looking housekeeper named Mrs. Gable hurried out under a large black umbrella.
Damian carried Eli inside, his long strides eating up the marble foyer. "Prepare the master suite on the third floor," he commanded, his voice echoing off the vaulted ceilings. "And get a pediatrician on the private line. I want a full medical evaluation for both children within the hour."
"Sir, the senator’s office has called three times," Mrs. Gable stammered, wringing her hands as she looked past Damian to see Rachel standing nervously in the doorway in her damp coat. "Miss Prescott is furious. She said—"
"Tell Miss Prescott that if she calls this house again, I will personally release the audit files on her father’s campaign contributions to the Inquirer," Damian cut her off without breaking stride.
Rachel caught up to him on the sweeping grand staircase. "You’re declaring war on half the state," she whispered, her voice trembling. "For what? To prove a point?"
"To prove that my life was a lie until five minutes ago," Damian stopped on the landing, turning to look down at her. The harsh fluorescent light of the diner was gone, replaced by the warm, chandelier-lit opulence of the home he had built. Yet, looking at Rachel, he realized how empty every room had been. "You’re staying here. Both of you. The children need a doctor, warm clothes, and a safe roof over their heads. You’re not going back to that motel, Rachel. Try to run, and I will lock every highway out of Pennsylvania."
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Rachel looked at her son sleeping peacefully against Damian’s shoulder, then up at the fierce, unrelenting determination in the man she had loved and fled from. She knew him too well. She knew that behind the expensive suits and the corporate titles, Damian Cross was still the ruthless street fighter who had conquered Philadelphia’s underworld before his thirtieth birthday.
And right now, that monster was turning his entire arsenal toward protecting her and their children.
