Chapter 122: Surprise Darlin’
The whiskey in Damien’s glass caught the dying afternoon light, a slow swirl of amber fire. New York had been a grinding symphony of problems—a shipping lane dispute settled with broken kneecaps, a city councilman whose moral flexibility needed expensive lubrication, the endless pressure of maintaining an empire built on shadows. For seven days, the only pure thing had been the sound of her voice through the phone, that icy sarcasm that could somehow warm him from a thousand miles away.
Thursday had come and gone. He’d promised to return, but a territorial issue with the Irish in Hell’s Kitchen had demanded his physical presence. He’d called her from the car after, the sounds of the city a brutal contrast to the ranch’s silence she’d described. She hadn’t been upset. “Just whip that stupid smile off your face and deal with it,” she’d said, but he’d heard the smirk.
Now, it was Friday. The office in Rossi Manor was quiet, a sanctum of resolved chaos. The single, long-stemmed rose he kept on the desk—a habit started the week they reconciled—was the only soft thing in the room. He was reviewing logistics for a container ship arriving from Naples when the door opened without a knock.
Only two people did that. Marco, who currently was leaning against the wall by the window, phone in hand. And—
Beth walked in. She wasn’t in Texas. She was here, in a tailored cream pantsuit that meant business, her wavey black hair loose around her shoulders. She carried the scent of jet fuel and her own jasmine perfume into the room, cutting through the whiskey and cigar haze.
Marco didn’t look up from his phone. “Told you your three o’clock was insistent.”
Damien stood, the chair scraping softly on marble. His surprise was a lightning strike, pure and bright. She crossed the room, her heels clicking a definitive rhythm, and hopped up to sit cross-legged on the vast, polished surface of his desk, right between a stack of manifests and a loaded Beretta.
The Texas sun had returned a warmth to her skin the grey New York winter had yet to leach away. She looked rested, powerful, and entirely pleased with herself.
“You’re late,” he said, his voice rough.
“Traffic over Nebraska was a bitch.” She reached out, plucked the rose from its crystal vase, and brought it to her nose, her sharp green eyes watching him over the crimson petals. “You missed me.”
“It’s been a week. I was managing.” He moved around the desk, stopping to stand between her knees. He bracketed her thighs with his hands, the fine wool of her suit soft under his palms.
“Liar.” She dropped the rose and framed his face with her hands, her thumbs tracing the line of his jaw. “You were pathetic. It was in your voice. All that Don Rossi gravity, and you just sounded lonely.”
He leaned into her touch, closing his eyes for a second. The weight of the city, of the decisions that required a specific kind of coldness, slid from his shoulders. Here, he was just a man whose wife had crossed the country to see him. “My jet works, you know. You didn’t have to suffer the commute.”
“Your jet is garish. All that gold trim. Mine has better bourbon.” She pulled him closer, her lips a breath from his. “And I had business in the city. A gallery opening my foundation is sponsoring. Plus… family’s in town.”
He stilled. “Family.”
A subtle shift. Her fingers didn’t leave his skin, but her gaze flickered, just for an instant, toward the window where the sky was bleeding into twilight. “Mm. Small gathering. My mother’s brother. Dimitri.”
The name hung in the air. Elena Novak’s only sibling. A man who existed in whispered updates and oblique references, a shadow even in a world of shadows. Beth and Dove rarely spoke of their Russian lineage. When they did, it was with a finality that closed the subject.
Marco shifted his weight against the wall, a silent signal of attention.
“A social visit?” Damien asked, his tone carefully neutral. He wanted to pry. He wanted to demand details, to assess the threat, to surround her with his own people. But the ten years apart had taught him the cost of mistaking her competence for vulnerability.
“Mostly.” She kissed him then, a slow, deep kiss that was both an answer and a diversion. When she pulled back, she shrugged one elegant shoulder. “He wants to see the ranch. Meet the infamous Damien Rossi before the wedding. Make sure his favorite niece isn’t marrying a complete fool.”
“And what did you tell him?”
“I told him the jury’s still out.” Her smile was real, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. It was the look she got when evaluating a hostile takeover target. “He’ll be at the ranch for a few days next week. You’ll be charming.”
“I’m always charming.”
“Try harder.” She slid off the desk, her body brushing against his. “Now, are you done for the day? Because I have a suite at the Lowell with a view I’m paying for, and you’re staring at me like I’m the last bottle of water in a desert.”
Marco cleared his throat, finally looking up. “The Irish thing, Damien. O’Malley’s expecting a call by six.”
“O’Malley can wait.” Damien didn’t look away from Beth. “Tell him I’m indisposed. A family matter came up.”
Beth’s lips quirked. She looped her arm through his, already steering him toward the door. “See? You can be taught.”
Later, in the muted elegance of the hotel suite, with the city sparkling below them like a field of fallen stars, he watched her at the window. She’d changed into one of his shirts, the fabric hanging loose on her frame. The quiet between them was comfortable, but the new variable hummed in the space.
“Dimitri,” he said, finally.
She didn’t turn. “Yes.”
“Do I need to be worried?”
She was silent for a long moment. “I don’t know,” she said, the honesty more unsettling than any reassurance. “It’s been a long time. The message from Juárez was his. The settlement he arranged was… efficient.”
Accounts are settled. The text on her phone. The end of the poison cookie problem. Handled through channels he didn’t control.
He came to stand behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist, resting his chin on her head. They stared at their reflection in the dark glass—a powerful, dangerous mosaic of a couple. “You should have told me he was coming.”
“I’m telling you now.” She leaned back into him. “This is the part, Damien, where we trust each other with our monsters. Even the ones with familiar faces.”
He held her tighter. The thought of a stranger, a relic of her mother’s violent world, walking the halls of the ranch set his teeth on edge. But she was right. It was a test. Of him. Of them. Of the future they were building.
“Next week, then,” he murmured into her hair.
“Next week,” she agreed, turning in his arms. Her kiss was a promise, and a warning. All he could do was meet it, and prepare.