Chapter 6
674words
I clutched Damon's hand as we stepped out. He wore a perfectly tailored black suit today—the expensive fabric somehow enhancing rather than taming his dangerous edge.
I took a deep breath and positioned myself protectively in front of him as we passed through the ornate doors.
The atmosphere in the main hall crackled with tension.
My father, Anthony Rossi, sat on the main sofa, cigar clenched between his fingers, his expression thunderous.
His lieutenants—the family's inner circle—stood silently around him, faces grim.
Across from them sat several men in expensive suits, led by a face I recognized—the chief counsel of the Wilson Group, representing my fiancé's family.
Great. A three-way showdown.
"Father," I said, breaking the suffocating silence.
Anthony's gaze swept over me, not even acknowledging Damon, his eyes filled with naked contempt.
"Is this the man you'd die for?" he sneered. "Some street rat you picked up from the gutter?"
"He is not trash!" I shot back, squeezing Damon's hand tighter.
"His name is Damon! And I'm marrying him! Even if he's flat broke, he's a hundred times the man that pencil-pushing bookworm you picked out could ever be!"
My voice rang through the hall, defiant and sharp.
But strangely, the explosion I expected never came.
Damon simply stepped forward and raised his head.
My father's expression froze mid-sneer.
The Wilson Group's legal team, upon seeing Damon's face, collectively rose from their seats, shock and dismay written across their features.
What the hell?
I looked between them in confusion.
The cigar dropped from my father's fingers onto the Persian carpet. He pointed at Damon, his lips trembling as he forced out each word:
"Young... Master... Wilson?"
Young Master?
My brain short-circuited.
"Dad, have you lost it?" I stared at my father in disbelief. "He's just some thug, not your precious son-in-law!"
No one even acknowledged my words.
Damon released my hand and strode toward the main seat in the hall.
With each step, the air grew heavier. The same bodyguards who'd been ready to pounce now lowered their eyes, not daring to meet his gaze.
He walked straight up to my father and then—before my stunned eyes—sat down in the armchair reserved exclusively for the Don of the Rossi Family.
He crossed his legs, pulled out a handkerchief, and methodically wiped his fingers before looking up. Those eyes I'd thought belonged to a street fighter now radiated the cold authority of someone born to power.
"Mr. Rossi," he began, his voice carrying an undeniable weight, "is this how you raised your daughter?"
In that moment, my world imploded.
This man commanding the room, making the entire Rossi Family bow in submission, was somehow the same Damon who'd smoked in alleyways, napped at the auto shop, and taken bullets for me.
I finally understood.
The street thug, the stolen ring—all an act!
The man I'd flirted with, drugged, and brazenly claimed as my boy toy was, all along, that legendary "bookworm who only knows how to count money."
His disguise was so perfect that even his own people believed it.
Even I—his fiancée—had been completely fooled.
Shock and humiliation crashed over me in waves.
Remembering everything I'd said and done, I wanted to die of shame.
I'd not only trashed him publicly but insulted him to his face.
And he was someone even my father feared.
I turned instinctively, desperate to escape this nightmare of humiliation.
But before I could take a step, my wrist was caught in an iron grip.
Damon had somehow materialized behind me. He pulled me against his chest, his breath hot against my ear.
Under everyone's stunned gaze, he lowered his head and claimed my lips in a kiss that screamed ownership.
When he finally released me, he looked down at my ashen face, his lips curling into that familiar, mocking smile.
He turned to my father and announced in a tone that allowed no discussion:
"Uncle, the wedding proceeds as planned."
"I find the bride... most satisfactory."
