Chapter 5 - A Royal Decree of Protection
The dining room of the Valdez mansion was an echoing vault of dark cedar wood and high vaulted ceilings, lit only by a pair of silver candelabras that cast long, flickering shadows across the polished table.
Nola sat at the far end, her fingers wrapped around a cup of chamomile tea she hadn't touched. She was still wearing her work clothes—an oversized flannel shirt and jeans stained with green chlorophyll from the peony stems.
Damian sat at the head of the table, a crystal glass of dark rye whiskey in his hand, his eyes fixed on the fire crackling in the massive stone hearth.
"You should leave, Nola," he said, his voice entirely flat, devoid of the mockery or coldness he usually employed.
Nola looked across the vast expanse of the table. "Because of the man at the gate?"
"The man at the gate was a scout," Damian said, taking a slow, measured swallow of his drink. "Vincent Marcone doesn't send scouts unless he’s planning an execution. He knows Leo is my weakness. He knows that if he takes the boy, the Valdez line collapses. And now he knows that the boy won't move an inch without you."
He stood up, walking over to her end of the table with that slow, panther-like gait. He stopped right beside her chair, leaning down until his face was inches from hers.
"If you walk out those gates tomorrow morning, I will provide you with a million dollars in a Swiss account and a new identity in Seattle. You will be safe. Your shop will be rebuilt under a different name. You can have your old life back."
Nola looked into his gray eyes, searching for the ruthless killer the newspapers wrote about. But all she saw was a man who was desperately trying to throw himself into the line of fire to save the people he had left.
"If I leave, what happens to Leo?" Nola asked, her voice steady, her brown eyes locking onto his silver ones with an absolute, fearless intensity.
Damian’s jaw worked, a muscle leaping near his ear. "He will go back to the dark. He will survive. He is a Valdez."
"No, he won't survive, Damian," she said, using his first name for the first time. The word felt heavy, dangerous, like stepping onto a thin sheet of ice over a deep river. "He will become like you. A stone statue trapped inside a beautiful tomb. He needs the flowers. He needs to know that the world doesn't just end in blood."
Damian reached out, his large, scarred fingers closing around her jaw with a grip that was shockingly gentle, his thumb resting against the racing pulse in her throat.
"You're a foolish girl, Nola," he whispered, his breath hot against her lips. " Kindness is a luxury that gets people killed in this city."
"Then let's be foolish," Nola murmured, her hand rising to rest over his wrist, her warm skin a stark contrast to his cold, battle-hardened knuckles. "Because I’m not leaving that boy. And I’m not leaving you."
Damian’s gray eyes flared with a sudden, violent heat—a spark of life that completely unmade the stone face of the mafia king. He didn't kiss her, but his fingers tightened against her skin for a single, breathless second before he stood up straight, pulling a heavy silver signet ring from his pinky finger.
May you like
He dropped the ring into her open palm. It was engraved with the Valdez crest—the unblinking eye of the gargoyle.
"You wear that around your neck, Nola," Damian commanded, his voice returning to its iron, imperial register. "If anyone in this house, or anyone on the streets, sees that silver... they know that touching you means an all-out war with the entire North Side. From this moment on, you are not a caregiver. You are a Valdez decree."
