Chapter 94: Minutes of Honey
The private tarmac was a wind-whipped expanse of gray concrete under a bruised twilight sky. Damien stood apart from his security detail, his coat collar turned up against the chill, watching the sleek Gulfstream taxi towards him. The ramp hadn’t even touched down before the door opened, and there she was.
Beth emerged, a silhouette against the warm cabin light, all sharp lines and elegant motion. The two days might as well have been a decade. Then she was walking towards him, her heels clicking a steady, determined rhythm on the asphalt, her carry-on abandoned for an attendant. The distance closed. Her eyes, those sharp green chips that had haunted him, were fixed on his.
She didn’t stop until she was right against him. Her arms went around his waist, her face pressed into the dark wool of his coat. He inhaled the familiar scent of her shampoo—jasmine and vanilla—cut through with cold jet fuel.
“I missed you, baby,” she grumbled into his chest, the words muffled but unmistakable.
His own arms folded around her, tight, anchoring. He buried his face in her hair, the world narrowing to the feel of her, solid and real in his embrace. The compound’s silence, the family’s tension, the waiting—it all bled out into the Jersey evening. He didn’t speak. He just held on, feeling the residual vibration of the flight still humming through her.
Finally, she tilted her head back to look at him. “You look tired.”
“You’re a sight for sore eyes,” he countered, brushing a thumb over her cheekbone. “And a liar. You hate flying. You’re wired.”
A faint smile touched her lips. “Caught me. I need a drink that isn’t airplane Chardonnay.”
“Your chariot awaits, my lady.” He offered his arm, a deliberately old-fashioned gesture. She took it, her fingers cool against his sleeve.
The car was silent, a rolling vault of leather and tinted glass. She stared out at the rushing pine trees that guarded the approach to the compound. “How bad is it really?” she asked, not looking at him.
“Vittorio’s pretending it was a minor audit. Sophia’s recalculating everyone’s net worth, including yours. Claire is… being Claire.” He watched her profile. “They know you saw Elena.”
“They think I’m gathering intelligence.”
“Aren’t you?”
She finally turned her gaze on him. It was direct, unflinching. “I was checking on a sick woman. The intelligence is a byproduct.”
The gates loomed, the wrought iron swinging open silently. The compound, lit up against the darkening sky, was imposing, beautiful, and suffocating. Beth’s posture straightened almost imperceptibly as they passed through. She was shifting, he could see it. Shedding the travel-weary woman from the tarmac and reassembling the mogul, the socialite, the woman who had walked away from this world and built her own.
Dinner was in the formal dining room, a cavernous space where the clink of silverware echoed like gunshots. The portraits of dead Rossis looked on, judging.
Vittorio sat at the head, an emperor on a shaky throne. Sophia was a study in calculated stillness beside him. Claire, at the other end, looked like she’d rather be anywhere else, picking at her risotto.
Beth’s entrance changed the atmospheric pressure. She’d changed into a simple, devastatingly expensive black dress. She took the seat Damien held for her, directly across from Claire.
“Claire,” Beth said, her voice cutting through the awkward silence. “I owe you an apology.”
Claire’s fork stilled. “You don’t.”
“I do. Your engagement weekend shouldn’t have been overshadowed by… ex-family issues.” Beth’s tone was smooth, diplomatic, but the pause was deliberate. “Let me make it up to you.Full catering for the reception. Consider it a wedding gift.”
Sophia’s eyes sharpened, calculating the sum instantly. Vittorio grunted, a sound that could have meant anything.
Claire’s guarded expression softened, just a fraction. It was a brilliant move, Damien thought. Generous, public, and it bypassed the men entirely, speaking woman-to-woman, benefactor-to-bride. A peace offering that also established dominance.
“That’s incredibly generous, Beth. Thank you,” Claire said, and for the first time all evening, her smile seemed genuine.
“It’s nothing,” Beth replied, taking a sip of water. “Every bride deserves her perfect day.”
The conversation limped forward after that—strained small talk about floral arrangements and venues, a safe territory curated by Beth. Damien watched her work the table. She was a masterclass in controlled navigation, offering Sophia a comment on the Bordeaux that flattered her selection, asking Vittorio a vague, respectful question about security upgrades that didn’t touch the raw nerve of Marco’s betrayal.
She was back. But she was a diplomat in a hostile kingdom, not a returning queen.
Later, in the relative sanctuary of his private wing, the performance fell away. Beth kicked off her heels and poured two fingers of whiskey from his decanter, handing one to him.
“That,” she said, leaning against the mantelpiece, “was excruciating.”
“You were magnificent.” He clinked his glass against hers. “You bought Claire’s neutrality for the price of some canapés.”
“It’s not neutrality. It’s a temporary cease-fire.” She knocked back a swallow. “Sophia’s measuring me. Figuring out if I’m an asset or a rival. Vittorio… he just sees a variable he can’t control.”
“And what are you?” he asked, moving closer.
She looked up at him, the firelight catching the green in her eyes. “I’m the variable that loves you.” She said it plainly, a statement of fact. “That complicates everything for them.For me. For you.”
He set his glass down, cradled her face in his hands. The weight of the day, the dinner, the years, hung between them. “You’re the only thing that uncomplicates me, Beth.”
Her breath hitched. For a moment, the mogul, the diplomat, the wounded ex-wife, all vanished. She was just her, and he was just him, in the quiet heart of the fortress. Her hand came up to cover his, her fingers threading through his. She didn’t pull away.
Outside the door, the compound slept, full of secrets and old blood. But in this room, for now, there was just this: the soft crackle of the fire, the warmth of the glass in her hand, the anchor-point of his touch, and the terrifying, exhilarating truth they had spoken into the space between them, waiting to see what it would build, or burn.