The Lawless Man With A Thousand Chains

007 Heavy Heart

The Quinn family nodded along, their relief turning into excited chatter that filled the hall.

"So it was Shane all along who saved the day."

"That ex-con nearly got us all killed by offending the Iceman with his big mouth. What was he thinking?"

"In any case, this Dutton boy is worth ten of some mountain hermit or prison stray."

"Our young heiress could do far worse than marrying into the Dutton family. It's the smart alliance we need."

Vanessa glanced at Damon, irritation flickering across her face like a storm cloud gathering. Her voice was a sharp whisper.

"I don't mind if you're useless, but this crosses a line. First, the ridiculous claim of pregnancy, and now it turns out you're an ex-convict? You didn't even think of the consequences before offending the Iceman? How reckless can you be?"

Damon met her look without flinching, his expression unreadable. He had no interest in explaining himself to any of them. Neither did he intend to claim credit for scaring off the Iceman.

The less he spoke here, the better. Let them believe whatever story made them feel safe.

Marcus clapped Shane on the shoulder and steered him toward the living room for celebratory drinks, his voice hearty with relief. "Don't worry about Vanessa's marriage papers. It was a whimsical decision that we can reverse at any time. There is no way I'd let my daughter stay married to an ex-convict or some hermit from the mountains."

"The two will split up in a few days, mark my words. You're the only one I'd ever accept as a son-in-law. The Dutton family is exactly the kind of alliance we need right now."

Elias sighed, leaning on his stick heavily, his shoulders sagging with the weight of disappointment.

Periander Fox's disciple had never come. Shane was no substitute, but at least he brought connections and money—better than the stranger Vanessa had dragged home.

Damon had heard and seen enough. The family's quick judgment, the way they credited Shane for his own actions, the way they dismissed him as nothing more than a reckless ex-con—it was all too much. It was just a paid job for him.

The young man slipped out the side door without a word. He flagged a cab at the end of the drive and gave the driver directions to Summit Ridge.

The elite area sat on the quieter edge of Dorne City—winding roads lined with ancient trees, private lakes shimmering like hidden jewels, and expensive homes tucked among the foliage deep in the trees.

At the highest point stood the Turner Mansion, a majestic crown of the ridge. It was the most lavish home in the city, a sprawling masterpiece of stone and glass that commanded the landscape.

Harlan, the crime lord with reach in every major state, had signed the deed over to him as a parting gift from their time together in prison.

The electronic key and the marriage contract had vanished with Damon's lost bag at the airport, but the address of such a renowned property was etched in his memory like a brand.

The cab dropped him near the hilltop path. Damon began walking the rest of the way up the steep road, the afternoon sun warm on his shoulders.

It was a pleasant feeling after so many years in the frozen Tartarus Penitentiary, where the cold had seeped into his bones and never quite left.

Damon was halfway to the top when the low growl of an engine rose behind him, growing louder and wilder by the second.

He turned just as a sleek black Porsche came hurtling around the bend, completely out of control. Its tires screamed in protest; the vehicle's front end aimed straight at him.

The driver must have lost control or passed out at the wheel—there was no time to figure out which, only to react.

Damon did not move. He assumed the worst but stood his ground. A practitioner of the sovereign arts had no reason to back off from an object weighing only a few tons.

He planted his feet firmly on the road, his body relaxed yet coiled with power, every muscle ready.

The young man gathered power into his right fist and drove a punch forward, using only a fraction of his strength.

Bang! The impact with the Porsche boomed like thunder, echoing across the hills and sending birds scattering from the trees.

A shockwave ripped outward, scattering leaves and gravel in every direction. The vehicle met an unstoppable force, and its momentum died instantly.

The Porsche's hood crumpled inward as if it had struck solid stone. A smoking crater opened in the metal, steam hissing angrily from the damaged engine.

The rear wheels lifted off the ground and hung there for a long second before the whole car rocked to a stop, the front end buried in the road.

Damon lowered his smoking fist. He hadn't taken a single step back with the impact. His stance remained unbroken, his breathing steady.

He crossed to the driver's door and yanked it open with a swift motion.

A young woman lay slumped over the wheel, unconscious. She was slender, with sharp cheekbones and dark hair pulled into a neat twist that had come slightly undone from the impact.

A crisp white blouse and tailored skirt clung to her striking frame; red leather heels rested against the pedals. Everything about her said she was elite—perhaps the CEO of a top company, a woman of power, poise, and authority.

Damon studied her face, noting the pallor of her skin and the faint lines of pain around her eyes even in unconsciousness. He pressed two fingers gently to her throat. Her pulse was steady, though faint and irregular.

Then he placed his hand lightly on her chest, over her heart. There was something cold and vicious swirling inside, like a storm trapped in ice.

The young man had felt energy like this only once before—when Periander Fox had demonstrated it to him during his most grueling training sessions in Tartarus.

Rampage energy—a direct competitor of his sovereign arts.

Someone powerful had left a ticking time bomb of rampage energy within her. Within seconds, her chest was about to explode.