Chapter 55 – The Den of Lions
Chapter 55 – The Den of Lions
---
Damon’s gaze never left Elijah Voss.
Even as he mingled with dignitaries and toasted champagne flutes with supermodels, Damon studied the man’s every movement—how he greeted guests by name, how he avoided cameras just long enough to not seem deliberate, how his smiles ended a fraction before his eyes did.
It was the behavior of a man who’d rehearsed being harmless.
And that was always the most dangerous kind.
Aurora approached from the buffet table with a flute of champagne in one hand and a forced smile on her face. “He’s schmoozing with a telecom billionaire now. I overheard him speak Russian.”
“Russian?” Damon’s brow rose slightly.
She nodded. “Fluent. Effortless. Which makes zero sense, because his file says he was raised in London by a professor and a sculptor.”
“He’s not who he says he is.”
“You think?”
Before she could respond, Luca stepped between them, his hand subtly resting at Aurora’s lower back. “Security says the fire exits are wired. Not locked, just monitored. If someone tries to sneak out, we’ll know.”
Damon didn’t bother hiding the tension in his jaw. “Keep eyes on the rooftop. And the kitchen staff. If this guy’s smart, he won’t run. He’ll bait.”
“Bait who?”
“Me.”
---
Across the ballroom, Elijah raised a glass to a politician while his fingers traced the edge of a napkin. The pattern he etched looked meaningless—until Celeste caught a glimpse of it and froze.
A symbol.
Three roses.
One bleeding.
She barely blinked before crossing the room to Damon, heels clicking like warning shots. “He’s marked.”
Damon didn’t need clarification. “You saw it too.”
“Same crest from the wax seal on the envelope,” she whispered. “He’s not just involved—he’s part of them.”
“And now we have proof.”
Damon’s eyes narrowed. “Let’s see if he recognizes pressure.”
---
Elijah had just thanked the event host when Damon stepped into his periphery, drink in hand, expression unreadable.
“You blend in well.”
Elijah turned with a slow, confident smile. “That’s the point of a good guest, isn’t it?”
“Depends on the house,” Damon said. “And what the guest intends to steal.”
Elijah laughed lightly. “You make me sound like a thief.”
“You’re not?” Damon sipped his drink, staring over the rim. “That’s disappointing.”
Elijah leaned in slightly. “We all steal something, Mr. Moretti. Some take money. Some take time. Others take truth.”
“And some take lives,” Damon replied.
The two men held each other’s gaze for a moment too long.
Then Elijah raised his glass. “To masks. May they always hold… until they’re no longer needed.”
And with that, he disappeared into the crowd again.
---
In the security room upstairs, Caleb and Silas watched Elijah’s every step via the camera feed. The facial recognition software flickered to life—overlaying possible matches.
Multiple IDs. Different names. One real face.
Silas’s voice dropped an octave. “His real name’s not Elijah. It’s Maksim Petrov. Former cyber intelligence. Disavowed.”
Caleb clenched his fists. “That’s our guy.”
“No,” Silas corrected. “That’s the face. But someone else is holding the leash.”
---
Back on the ballroom floor, Aurora had joined a conversation with Luca and a board of trustees, trying to act natural while her eyes darted to Damon every five seconds.
He was calm.
But it was the kind of calm that looked like the stillness before lightning struck.
A waiter passed by. Damon caught his eye—one of Caleb’s men in disguise.
“Is the room ready?”
“Yes, sir. Far end of the west wing. Soundproofed. Scrambled cameras.”
“Good.”
He handed the man a folded card.
“When our friend slips away… give him this.”
---
It didn’t take long.
Thirty minutes later, Elijah excused himself from the bar and disappeared down the west corridor. He followed the path as though he’d walked it a thousand times.
At the end of the hallway, he found the room.
Door open.
Inside, a dimly lit study. Bookshelves. A single chair.
Damon was already there.
He didn’t stand. Just sipped scotch in the silence, legs crossed like a man with nothing to lose.
“You got the message,” Damon said.
Elijah closed the door behind him. “You’re bold.”
“Only when cornered.”
The air tightened.
Elijah studied the room. “No guards?”
“No need. If you were going to kill me, you’d have done it already.”
“And if I wanted to… unravel you?”
Damon’s smile was thin. “You’d have to try harder.”
Elijah took a step forward. “You still don’t know what this is, do you?”
“I know exactly what it is. A game you think you’re winning.”
“But games have rules,” Elijah replied. “And this one was written before you were born.”
Damon stood now. Taller. Colder. “Then let me rewrite them.”
He crossed the room and stared directly into the man’s eyes.
“If you’re going to pull the trigger—do it. But if you’re just here to play ghost, then understand something: I don’t flinch. I don’t run. And I don’t forget.”
Elijah’s jaw ticked, but he said nothing.
Then a phone buzzed in his pocket. He glanced at it.
His smile returned. “Time’s up.”
He turned to leave—but Damon stopped him at the door.
“One more thing,” he said.
“What?”
Damon leaned closer, voice like steel.
“I’m not the scared boy my father once buried. I’m the man who will burn down everything to protect the people he couldn’t.”
Elijah’s smile faltered just enough to be noticed.
Then he was gone.
---
Upstairs, Silas turned to Caleb.
“He left something behind.”
They scanned the study’s video feed. A napkin. Etched with the same symbol—and coordinates.
“Coordinates?” Caleb asked.
“Looks like Venice.”
Caleb’s lips thinned. “Where this all began.”
---
Back in the hidden car parked far from the estate, the second figure—the real mastermind—watched Elijah reappear on screen.
He nodded once, satisfied.
Beside him, another figure adjusted a headset and pressed a button.
“It’s time,” the mastermind said. “Initiate Phase Two.”