Chapter 6 - Midnight on the Calumet HarborFrank tapped the tablet screen, setting the device onto the desk between us.
The high-definition video stream flared to life, showing the cabin of Damon's private Gulfstream jet descending through the clouds over Chicago.
Sitting in an oversized leather armchair was seven-year-old Mia Vance.
She had Damon's dark hair and piercing gray eyes, wearing a clean navy school uniform, clutching a plush golden retriever puppy against her chest, laughing as a private security officer handed her a cup of warm chocolate milk.
Beside her sat Dr. Aris, who had flown out on the midnight flight to supervise the transfer personally.
“We are on final approach to Midway, Don Damon,” Dr. Aris spoke through the audio feed. “Mia is completely unharmed. She was told she was coming home for an early holiday surprise. She hasn't stopped asking for her father.”
Damon leaned over the screen, his broad shoulders trembling with a silent, profound wave of relief.
"Thank you, Elena," Damon whispered. "Bring her straight to the Prairie Avenue gate."
He closed the call, turning back to me, his dark eyes shining with an ocean of pure, unvarnished devotion.
"She is coming home, Clara," he murmured softly.
"She's safe, Damon," I smiled through my tears, reaching out to touch his scarred hand. "She will never know how close the darkness came."
Before he could speak, the intercom on the desk buzzed with three short, urgent tones.
“Boss. Julian Sterling’s convoy has just crossed the perimeter sensors at 95th Street. Six armored Suburbans, twenty-four armed mercenaries. They are heading toward the Calumet Harbor logistics terminal.”
Damon’s gentle expression snapped back into the cold, impenetrable mask of the sovereign.
"Did they bring the Detroit contingent?"
“Two vehicles from the Motown crew, boss. Carrying heavy suppression.”
Damon reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a customized, matte-black Colt .45, checking the magazine with a smooth, practiced snap of his wrist before sliding the weapon into his shoulder holster.
He looked down at me, his gray eyes burning with lethal certainty.
"Stay here with Mrs. Gable, Clara. The house is locked down under thirty armed sentries."
"Damon," I said, rising from the sofa, catching the heavy wool of his sleeve with both hands. "Be careful."
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Damon paused. He looked down at my hands clutching his arm, then reached up, his large, calloused fingers cupping the side of my face, his thumb gently smoothing over the butterfly bandage at my temple.
"I have something to come home to now, Clara," he whispered against my lips. "The water will never rise above our heads."
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