Chapter 6 - Blood on the Snow
Damian had arrived at the Osprey Inn just as Vance’s black SUV pulled up to the rear alley. Seeing the shattered door of Room 114, every lingering trace of restraint inside Damian shattered into pure, unadulterated savagery.
He burst through the doorway like an armored vehicle, slamming his massive frame into Vance before the contractor could turn his weapon around. The two men crashed through the drywall, tumbling onto the floor of the main room in a tangle of limbs and flying wood fragments.
Vance scrambled to raise his pistol, but Damian grabbed Vance’s wrist, slamming it repeatedly against the sharp edge of the nightstand until the weapon clattered onto the carpet. Damian brought his heavy fist down once, twice, three times into Vance’s face, breaking his jaw and spraying blood across the white bed sheets.
“Who sent you?” Damian roared, dragging the bleeding hitman up by his collar and pinning him against the wall. “Who gave you the order?!”
Vance choked on his own blood, glaring at Damian with swollen, furious eyes. “Grant... Grant said... she couldn't be allowed to talk...”
Damian slammed Vance’s head backward into the wall, knocking the contractor unconscious instantly. He let the man’s limp body collapse to the floor like a sack of wet flour.
Breathing heavily, his coat covered in plaster dust and blood, Damian turned slowly toward the locked bathroom door. The room was dead silent except for the faint sound of weeping from inside.
“Isabelle,” Damian called out, his voice shaking, entirely stripped of its authority. “Isabelle, it’s me. It’s Damian.”
Inside the bathroom, Isabelle backed further against the frosted window, her heart hammering wildly against her ribs. Hearing his voice didn't bring her relief—it filled her with a profound, terrifying dread.
“Go away!” she screamed through the door, her voice breaking with raw agony. “Go away, Damian! Haven't you done enough?! You threw me out into the storm! You took my dignity! Now you come here with your killers?!”
“I didn't send him!” Damian pleaded, pressing his forehead against the wooden door panel. His eyes burned with unshed tears. “Isabelle, please listen to me! I was wrong! The evidence was forged—Grant Doyle set us up! He tried to murder me in Providence, and he framed you so I would drive you away!”
Silence fell inside the bathroom.
“I know about the baby,” Damian whispered, his voice cracking on the final word. “I found the test in your room after you left. I found the doctor’s appointment card.”
The lock on the bathroom door clicked. Slowly, the wooden door swung open.
Isabelle stood in the doorway, holding a heavy glass vase like a weapon, her dark hair wild, her face pale and stained with tears. She looked at Damian, then down at the bloody body of Vance lying on the floor, and back to Damian’s face.
“You found the test,” she said, her voice dropping to a whisper that cut deeper than any knife. “And that’s why you’re here? Because of a piece of plastic?”
“No,” Damian begged, stepping forward, reaching out with a trembling hand he didn't dare use to touch her. “I’m here because I was a fool who lost his mind. I’m here because I broke my promise to protect you. I’m here because I love you, Isabelle, and I will tear down every building in Boston to make this right.”
May you like
Isabelle looked into his eyes—the eyes of the man who had ruled her world, the man who had looked at her four nights ago with absolute disgust and told her to leave.
“You chose the folder, Damian,” she said, her voice cold as the ice outside. “You looked at me—a woman who slept beside you for three years—and you believed a pile of paper over my soul. You didn't just throw me out. You destroyed us.”
