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The weight of it in my hand lends me a bit of courage. Back in the room, I slide the knife beneath my pillow as a silent promise to myself. If he comes back, if he dares to force himself on me again... I'll be ready. I'll kill him if I have to. This nightmare will end, one way or another.
6
CHAPTER 6
Damien
The warehouse is dimly lit. The faint smell of rusted metal and old wood lingers in the air. The silence outside belies the flurry of activity within. I stand in the middle of it all, my gaze sweeping across the room as I oversee the latest shipment. Men scurry around, their faces hardened and their movements quick and precise. My fingers drum against the cold metal of the table in front of me as my mind churns with thoughts, plans, and strategies.
Echoes of terse conversations fill the air, punctuated by the occasional thud of heavy crates being moved. I can feel the weight of their gazes on me, their silent respect and fear equally present. The room is grimy, and the air is thick with the scent of sweat, blood, and determination.
Here in this warehouse, I'm not just Damien Blackhart. I'm the man who keeps the family's darker secrets, the man who handles the business everyone else is too afraid to touch. Victor strides towards me, his worn leather boots echoing ominously in the cavernous space. His face is a mask of calm, but the twinkle in his steely gray eyes betrays his amusement.
"Damien," he begins, his baritone voice resonating through the room. "The shipment's ready. Weapons are packed and ready to roll out."
I nod, not taking my eyes off the flurry of activity around us. Victor's laid-back demeanor belies his lethal competence, making him just as deadly as me. He's the quiet storm to my thunder, the chill to my fury.
"And the Hawthorns?" I ask, my jaw tightening at the mention of our rivals.
Victor says as his fingers drum rhythmically against the table, too. "They're poking their noses where they don't belong," he says with irritation seeping into his voice. "They're fucking with our operations."
A growl of frustration rumbles in my chest. "They're starting to piss me off," I say, turning to face him. "We need to deal with them and fast."
My tone is firm and authoritative. There's no room for discussion here. Victor simply nods, understanding the gravity of my words. Our territory, our operations, and our family. We will protect it all, no matter what.
“We’ll get the information we’re looking for,” Victor tells me. “I’m going to enjoy beating the shit out of their henchmen. Where the hell is your brother? He was supposed to be the one overseeing this shipment.”
I lean against the table as my eyes scan the room, but Jackson is still nowhere to be seen. My hands clench in irritation. Jackson's absence feels like a glaring spot in my otherwise structured world. Lately, he's been more reckless, his actions bordering on self-destruction. His duties and responsibilities, he’s shoving them aside, leaving me to clean up his messes. Apparently, beating the shit out of him didn’t help to change his behavior.
I’m glad it was enough to keep the Valdez’s off our backs. That and reduced costs for their shipments for an extended period of time. The anger bubbles inside me, a steady drumbeat matching the pounding in my head. I clench and unclench my fists as my nails dig into the palms of my hands. If Jackson only knew half of what I was dealing with, he wouldn't be wasting his time playing house.
Thoughts of Isabella sneak into my mind uninvited. Jackson's words echo in my head, painting an unflattering picture of a spoiled vixen hell-bent on climbing the social ladder by any means necessary. She's reportedly obsessed with money, social status, and the finer things in life. This perception of her is repugnant, sickening even. It's like she's the embodiment of everything I despise in my world.
Greed, vanity, and deceit. I grit my teeth and swear to myself that I'd do everything in my power to protect my family fortune from her. The creaking of the warehouse doors shatters my thoughts, and in strides Jackson, late as usual and uncaring about the inconvenience his tardiness causes.
"You're late, Jackson," I say with a controlled calm that contradicts the anger simmering beneath the surface.
Jackson shrugs, and his nonchalance stokes my fury. "Relax, Damien. I'm here now," he replies with a cocky grin playing on his lips.
"That's not the point. You were supposed to oversee this shipment. Instead, I get pulled in to cover for you again," I snap, my temper flaring.
Jackson rolls his eyes, and the disrespectful gesture ignites my fury. "Take the stick out of your ass, Damien," he drawls in a dismissive tone. "I said I'm here now, so I'll handle it."
My fists clench at my sides, and my anger is a solid force between us. "While you were off gallivanting around, some of Hawthorn's men destroyed our last shipment," I growl through gritted teeth. The surprise on Jackson's face is satisfying, but it does little to quell my rage. "We've captured some of them, and we need to interrogate them. Now."
Jackson raises an eyebrow. "Fine, you handle the men. I'll get the shipment out."
I snarl at him as my patience has worn thin. "This is not a fucking game, Jackson," I snap before turning on my heel and storming away. My thoughts are a whirlwind of anger and frustration.
Victor and I stride through the warehouse, and our boots echo ominously against the concrete. We enter a room separate from the rest, a harsh, unforgiving space filled with four men, two strapped to chairs and two to metal tables. I recognize them. I’ve seen them sniffing around Blackhart Enterprises.
The room is chillingly silent. There’s fear in the air as Victor and I stand tall, our imposing presence filling the space. The rancid stench of urine fills my nostrils as the two men strapped to the chairs piss themselves, their bodies trembling with raw, primal fear. I curl my lip in disgust as I shake my head at the pitiful display.
"Now, gentlemen," I begin, my voice echoing off the cold, bare walls of the room. "Let's get to the point. Why did Hawthorns destroy our last shipment?" Silence hangs heavy in the room. The men shift uncomfortably under my gaze. "And what," I continue, my gaze turning icy. “Do the Hawthorns plan to do next?"
The men remain silent, but their eyes are wide with fear. Victor and I exchange a look, a shared understanding passing between us. It's going to be a long night, one filled with pain and blood, but we will get our answers one way or another.
I unbuckle my suit jacket and hand it to one of my men standing off to the side. I begin rolling up the sleeves of my shirt, and Victor and I waste no time, our cold, calculated methods of persuasion taking center stage. I grab a steel rod, its surface shimmering threateningly under the harsh fluorescent light. As I run my fingers along its cool length, a shiver of dread ripples through the men, their eyes wide with terror. The screams begin when Victor picks up a pair of pliers, the metal gleaming menacingly before their eyes.
