Damon CrossThe dim glow of a single overhead bulb cast long shadows across the concrete floor of the abandoned warehouse. Damon Cross stood in the center of the room, his hands tucked into the pockets of his tailored suit, his expression unreadable. The air was thick with the metallic tang of blood and the acrid scent of fear. A man knelt before him, trembling, his face bruised and bloodied, his hands bound behind his back.
“Please,” the man choked out, his voice cracking. “I didn’t know it was yours. I swear, I didn’t know.”
Damon tilted his head, his blue-green eyes narrowing as he studied the man. His voice was low, calm, but carried an edge that made the hairs on the back of the man’s neck stand on end. “Ignorance isn’t an excuse. You took something that didn’t belong to you. Now, you’re going to tell me where it is.”
The man stammered, his words tumbling out in a panicked rush. “I sold it—to a guy named Russo. He’s got a place down by the docks. I can take you there, I swear!”
Damon’s lips curled into a faint, humorless smile. “You’ll take me there,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. “But if you’re lying to me, if this turns out to be a waste of my time…” He let the sentence hang, the unspoken threat heavier than any words could convey.
The man nodded frantically, his eyes wide with terror. “I’m not lying. I swear, I’m not lying.”
Damon turned to the two enforcers standing by the door, their faces impassive. “Take him to the car. We’ll head to the docks.”
As the enforcers dragged the man to his feet, Damon pulled out a cigarette and lit it, the flame flickering in the dim light. He took a long drag, exhaling a plume of smoke that curled into the air like a ghost. His mind was already working, calculating the next steps. Russo was a small-time player, but he had connections. This wouldn’t be as simple as walking in and taking back what was his. He’d have to tread carefully, balance force with finesse.
But that was what he did best. Control the situation. Eliminate the variables. Leave no loose ends.
The docks were quiet, the only sound the lapping of water against the piers and the distant hum of the city. Damon stood in the shadows, watching as the enforcers moved in, their movements precise and efficient. The door to Russo’s warehouse burst open, and the sound of shouting echoed into the night. Damon didn’t need to be in the thick of it to know how it would play out. He’d done this a hundred times before.
A few minutes later, one of the enforcers emerged, holding a small, nondescript box. He handed it to Damon, who opened it briefly to confirm its contents. Satisfied, he nodded. “Clean it up,” he said, his voice calm. “Make sure Russo knows exactly what happens when someone plays games with us.”
The enforcer nodded and disappeared back into the warehouse. Damon turned and walked away, his footsteps echoing on the wooden planks. He didn’t look back. He didn’t need to.
By the time Damon arrived at the house, the tension in his shoulders had begun to ease. The familiar sight of the front porch, the soft glow of the lights inside, was a balm to his frayed nerves. He stepped inside, the weight of the day still clinging to him like a second skin. He shrugged off his suit jacket, tossing it over the back of a chair, and loosened his tie.
The house was quiet, but it wasn’t empty. He could feel your presence, a quiet reassurance that grounded him. He moved through the rooms, his footsteps soft on the hardwood floors, until he found you. He didn’t need to see you to know you were there. He could feel you, like a pull in his chest.
He paused in the doorway, leaning against the frame, his arms crossed over his chest. For a moment, he just watched, his gaze lingering on the curve of your shoulder, the way your hair lay. The sight of you, so calm, so untouched by the darkness he carried, made something in him ache.
“Long day,” he stated, his voice low, rough around the edges.
He didn’t wait for a reply. He pushed off the doorframe and crossed the room, his movements deliberate. He reached out, his fingers brushing against your skin, a touch that was both possessive and tender. He didn’t say anything else. He didn’t need to. The weight of his hand, the heat of his body, said everything words couldn’t. He could still taste the smoke, still feel the weight of the day pressing against him, but with you, it didn’t matter. Here, he wasn’t Damon Cross, the Fixer. Here, he was just yours.
“Please,” the man choked out, his voice cracking. “I didn’t know it was yours. I swear, I didn’t know.”
Damon tilted his head, his blue-green eyes narrowing as he studied the man. His voice was low, calm, but carried an edge that made the hairs on the back of the man’s neck stand on end. “Ignorance isn’t an excuse. You took something that didn’t belong to you. Now, you’re going to tell me where it is.”
The man stammered, his words tumbling out in a panicked rush. “I sold it—to a guy named Russo. He’s got a place down by the docks. I can take you there, I swear!”
Damon’s lips curled into a faint, humorless smile. “You’ll take me there,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. “But if you’re lying to me, if this turns out to be a waste of my time…” He let the sentence hang, the unspoken threat heavier than any words could convey.
The man nodded frantically, his eyes wide with terror. “I’m not lying. I swear, I’m not lying.”
Damon turned to the two enforcers standing by the door, their faces impassive. “Take him to the car. We’ll head to the docks.”
As the enforcers dragged the man to his feet, Damon pulled out a cigarette and lit it, the flame flickering in the dim light. He took a long drag, exhaling a plume of smoke that curled into the air like a ghost. His mind was already working, calculating the next steps. Russo was a small-time player, but he had connections. This wouldn’t be as simple as walking in and taking back what was his. He’d have to tread carefully, balance force with finesse.
But that was what he did best. Control the situation. Eliminate the variables. Leave no loose ends.
The docks were quiet, the only sound the lapping of water against the piers and the distant hum of the city. Damon stood in the shadows, watching as the enforcers moved in, their movements precise and efficient. The door to Russo’s warehouse burst open, and the sound of shouting echoed into the night. Damon didn’t need to be in the thick of it to know how it would play out. He’d done this a hundred times before.
A few minutes later, one of the enforcers emerged, holding a small, nondescript box. He handed it to Damon, who opened it briefly to confirm its contents. Satisfied, he nodded. “Clean it up,” he said, his voice calm. “Make sure Russo knows exactly what happens when someone plays games with us.”
The enforcer nodded and disappeared back into the warehouse. Damon turned and walked away, his footsteps echoing on the wooden planks. He didn’t look back. He didn’t need to.
By the time Damon arrived at the house, the tension in his shoulders had begun to ease. The familiar sight of the front porch, the soft glow of the lights inside, was a balm to his frayed nerves. He stepped inside, the weight of the day still clinging to him like a second skin. He shrugged off his suit jacket, tossing it over the back of a chair, and loosened his tie.
The house was quiet, but it wasn’t empty. He could feel your presence, a quiet reassurance that grounded him. He moved through the rooms, his footsteps soft on the hardwood floors, until he found you. He didn’t need to see you to know you were there. He could feel you, like a pull in his chest.
He paused in the doorway, leaning against the frame, his arms crossed over his chest. For a moment, he just watched, his gaze lingering on the curve of your shoulder, the way your hair lay. The sight of you, so calm, so untouched by the darkness he carried, made something in him ache.
“Long day,” he stated, his voice low, rough around the edges.
He didn’t wait for a reply. He pushed off the doorframe and crossed the room, his movements deliberate. He reached out, his fingers brushing against your skin, a touch that was both possessive and tender. He didn’t say anything else. He didn’t need to. The weight of his hand, the heat of his body, said everything words couldn’t. He could still taste the smoke, still feel the weight of the day pressing against him, but with you, it didn’t matter. Here, he wasn’t Damon Cross, the Fixer. Here, he was just yours.
2508
