The Lawless Man With A Thousand Chains

003 The Iceman

Damon stepped into Room 256 and let the door close behind him. The woman stepped back gracefully and half-reclined on the edge of the king-size bed, giving him a long moment to take in her appearance.

Her thin-strapped top had slipped lower, barely covering the upper curves of her breasts. A warm, teasing smile curved her full lips as she spoke in a honeyed, inviting voice.

"Finally, you're here. I was starting to think you'd changed your mind. I'm Lila."

"I'm Damon," he replied without acknowledging her flirtation. "Let's get on with it."

Lila's glance swept over him approvingly. "I like a man who doesn't waste time. You look better than I'd hoped, though. Tall, strong, and healthy."

She patted the spot beside her on the bed, crossing her legs so the skirt inched higher. "Come sit down right here, close to me, handsome. We can talk about how this is going to work."

Damon pulled the chair over instead and sat facing her, keeping a careful distance. "Why don't you call your husband in here?" he asked, his tone casual.

Lila was taken aback. "Why do we need him?"

"I could fix whatever's wrong with him so the two of you can have a kid the normal way."

The woman furrowed her brows and shook her head, chuckling softly. "You're funny. Stop messing around."

"I'm not," Damon said flatly. "I dabble in the healing arts. If your husband could handle impregnating you himself, you wouldn't need to run embarrassing ads asking for outside help."

Damon had never intended to have sex or donate his sperm to a stranger. He meant to cure the poor husband's impotence and charge for it.

Lila's amusement faded into something dark. She sat up straighter, the teasing smile tightening with irritation. "Looks like a fool fell into my trap this time. Come in, guys!"

The door burst open, and four burly men stormed in.

"How dare you hit on the boss's wife, you piece of shit!" one of them snarled.

"You got a death wish! On the floor, hands behind your head!"

"You dare try to sleep with my wife!" Daryl, the leader, thundered. "Call your people and tell them to bring a hundred grand or you're going out in a bag!"

Damon recognized the setup instantly. It was a classic badger game.

Harlan, the crime lord, had once narrated this extortion trick to him: a female accomplice would lure the target into a compromising, usually sexual, position, then an angry husband or relative would burst in to catch him in the act and blackmail him for money.

Damon wasn't the least bit ruffled. He remained seated and chuckled under his breath. "Hands behind my head? Nah, that sounds like a chore."

The burly men were visibly offended. They exchanged glances and then charged at him.

But he moved faster than they expected.

Damon's hand snapped out, caught the nearest two goons by their skulls, and cracked them together with a wet, echoing thud. Both of them dropped as if their puppet strings had been snipped.

The other pair snarled at him. "You fucking bastard! Dared to touch our leader! You're dead meat already!" 

They rushed at Damon, aiming to tackle him to the ground. Damon flicked his foot lazily at the dustbin beside his chair.

The cheap plastic container shot out as if fired from a cannon. It smashed into the charging men, lifted them off their feet, and sent them crashing into the wall.

They hit the floor moaning in agony, clutching their broken ribs. The dustbin rolled to a stop, completely undamaged.

"Darling! Are you okay?" Lila cried out, scrambling across the carpet to help the groaning leader. She helped him sit up, her eyes streaming, already ruining her makeup.

Daryl spat blood on the floor, his eyes blazing at Damon. "You're finished, asshole. Dead!"

One of his followers wheezed, "Sir, this guy's no joke. He can fight for real. Let's call the Iceman from the lobby."

Daryl hesitated for a moment, then yanked out his phone. "Mr. Iceman! We're in deep shit. We need your help in Room No. 256!"

Minutes later, the door blasted open again. A broad, thick-necked man with a heavy mutton-chop beard strode in, trailed by over twenty severe-looking enforcers who packed the hallway behind him.

This was the Iceman, commander of the Coldblood gang that ruled most of Dorne City's underworld. Everyone called him the Iceman because of his white attire and the staggering number of people he'd sent to the morgue.

The Iceman swept the room with one glance and understood what had transpired. He stomped straight to Daryl and drove a boot into his ribs.

"Were you playing your stupid games again? Haven't I given you enough walking-around money to stay out of this crap?"

"Apologies, Mr. Iceman," Daryl muttered, lowering his head. "Lila wanted a new car."

The mob boss scoffed and turned to Damon. "These idiots tried to run a scam on you. That's on them. But you put hands on my crew, so now you must pay."

Damon raised a lazy eyebrow. "What is the price?"

The Iceman spread his hands, almost reasonable about it. "Break your own wrists, and I'll be generous. Otherwise, you won't leave this room alive."

Damon was barely listening to the mob boss. He scrutinized the man's face for a moment. "Your facial hair is dwindling, and your lip droops to the right side. It is a rare indication that you were born impotent."