Chapter 7 - The Hamptons Estate
The sprawling estate in Southampton looked like a fortress disguised as a billionaire’s summer playground. High ivy-covered brick walls surrounded a massive French provincial mansion, guarded by men in discreet black suits carrying concealed automatic weapons. Valet parkers in crisp white shirts parked million-dollar sports cars and luxury sedans along the circular gravel driveway.
When Damon’s black Rolls-Royce Phantom glided through the wrought-iron gates, Lydia took a slow, deep breath, smoothing the lapels of her bespoke blazer. She looked stunning, her hair pulled back into an elegant chignon, a simple diamond pendant resting against her collarbone—a loan from Damon’s private vault that sparkled like frozen ice.
"Remember," Damon murmured as the car came to a smooth halt, turning to look at her in the dim cabin light. "You are Alana Vance, daughter of a Swiss shipping magnate, brilliant, untouchable, and utterly bored by criminal posturing. You say nothing unless spoken to, and when you do speak, you make them feel like they're reciting nursery rhymes."
Lydia gave a sharp, confident nod. "And if Volkov looks at me too closely?"
"Then I put a bullet through his kneecap before he remembers your face," Damon replied, his voice completely devoid of hesitation or humor.
The heavy oak doors of the mansion swung open, revealing a glittering, decadent ballroom filled with men in expensive tuxedos and women dripping in diamonds, drinking vintage champagne while discussing extortion, gun-running, and real estate laundering as if they were talking about golf scores.
As Damon and Lydia stepped into the room, conversations faltered. Heads turned. The presence of Damon Cross always commanded the room, but the stunning, ice-cool woman on his arm immediately drew every eye in the vicinity.
Viktor Volkov stood near the far fireplace, holding a crystal glass of vodka. When he saw Lydia stepping through the crowd beside Damon, his glass stopped halfway to his mouth. His heavy brows furrowed into a deep, suspicious knot.
Damon felt Lydia tense slightly beside him. Without breaking his stride or losing his calm, predatory smile, Damon slipped his arm around her waist, pulling her flush against his side.
"Breathe, Alana," Damon whispered in her ear, his voice a warm vibration against her skin. "He's just an old bear waiting to be put down."
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As they approached the center of the room, Volkov set his glass down on a mahogany pedestal, stepped directly into their path, and blocked their way with a heavy, menacing grin.
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