Chapter 3 - The Cold Extraction
The front door of the diner blew open, admitting a fresh gust of freezing November wind and three more men in heavy wool coats.
They weren't local police, and they weren't curious onlookers. They were Damen’s personal extraction team, men who moved with military precision, clearing the perimeter before anyone on the street could realize what was happening.
"Boss," the lead man, a scarred veteran named Vincent, said quietly as he stepped inside. "The street is secure. Escalades are idling out back. We need to move before the local precinct catches wind of the disturbance."
Alessandra stood frozen by the booth, her face twisted in a mask of furious betrayal. "You can't just walk out of here! My father will destroy you, Damen! The Giordano family will declare war before sunrise!"
Damen didn't even look back at her as he kept one arm securely around my waist, supporting my trembling frame.
"Tell your father that if he has anything to say about my marriage, he can bring it to my office tomorrow morning," Damen said coldly over his shoulder. "As for our arrangement—it's over."
"Damen, no!" I struggled against his grip, my feet tangling in the broken glass on the floor. "I'm not going with you! I won't go back to the compound!"
"You're not going to a compound," he said, his voice dropping into a fierce, unshakable resolve as he lifted me effortlessly into his arms, ignoring my protests. "You're coming home."
"Put me down!" I gasped, my hands gripping his lapels as the cold night air hit us the second Vincent pushed open the rear service door that led into the alley.
The dark, sleek shapes of two armored Cadillac Escalades waited against the brick wall, their engines idling with a deep, muffled rumble. The alley was narrow, flanked by towering brick warehouses and the hum of industrial air conditioners.
Tomas yanked open the back door of the lead vehicle.
"Get the backup team on the southern perimeter," Damen ordered Vincent as he slid into the leather-lined interior, pulling me down beside him on the plush seat. "I want every access road to Kedzie locked down until my wife and I are safely across the state line."
"Your wife?" I spat out, shifting away from him as far as the seat allowed, pressing my back against the door panel. "I filed for divorce in my heart the day I faked my own death to keep you from using me as leverage!"
Damen’s jaw clenched so hard a muscle twitched in his cheek. He reached out, his large, warm hand catching my chin and forcing me to look at him.
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"You don't divorce a Moretti, Serena," he said, his voice dangerously soft. "And you certainly don't fake your death and think I won't spend every dollar I own to drag you back into the light."
Before I could answer, the driver slammed the vehicle into gear, and the SUV surged forward into the dark Chicago night, leaving the neon sign of Sal’s Diner buzzing behind us in the dark.
