Chapter 174: Trouble Never Leave The Devil

Tucked deep inside the service corridor behind the VIP mezzanine, Vivian Stark leaned against the cold concrete wall, the screen of her encrypted burner phone glowing against the shadows of her oversized sunglasses.

​She pressed the device to her ear, listening to the heavy thrum of the subterranean club vibrating through the vents. On the other end of the line, a gruff, heavily accented voice answered after half a ring.

​"Target is locked on the mezzanine," the mercenary rasped, the low hum of an idling van audible in the background. "My two men are staged by the service lift with suppressed sidearms. We can hit the lights, breach the corridor, and bag Vance before Sterling’s detail knows what’s happening. Give the word for the breach."

​Vivian’s crimson lips twisted into a bitter, venomous sneer.

​"Stand down on the breach," she hissed, her manicured nails digging into the cracked plaster of the wall. "Dante strictly forbade any drastic moves tonight. He wants her intact for that offshore vault, and if you turn this club into a bloodbath, Sullivan will hand our heads to the federal marshals before breakfast."

​A heavy, disappointed sigh crackled over the line. "So we’re just babysitting? We geared up for a high-priority snatch, not to sit in a damn loading dock."

​"You do what I pay you to do," Vivian snapped, her voice trembling with cold, unhinged malice as her mind replayed the scene on the dance floor... Damian cradling Anastasia, kissing her with that unbearable, sickening reverence.

The mere thought of it made Vivian’s stomach violently heave. "One of the VIP waitstaff is on our payroll. Get him on the comms right now and find out what they’re ordering for the booth."

​"Food?" The mercenary sounded thoroughly baffled. "You want catering intel?"

​"Check the order, you idiot," Vivian commanded, her whisper turning razor-sharp. "Whatever dessert or cold plate is sent up to settle her drunken stomach, tell our boy in the pantry to dust it with finely crushed bitter almond powder. Mix it directly into the garnish."

​A beat of dead silence hung over the call. The mercenary let out a derisive scoff. "Almond powder? That’s your master play? A pantry prank?"

​"It’s not a prank, you caveman. Anastasia Vance goes into full anaphylactic shock within sixty seconds of touching tree nuts," Vivian whispered, a dark, manic smile carving across her face as her eyes glittered with pure sadism. "Dante won’t let me put a bullet in her skull yet. But watching Damian Sterling look at her like she’s his whole world made me sick to my stomach. If I can’t bury her tonight, I am going to watch her suffocate on her own tongue... and I want Damian to watch, completely helpless to stop it."

*****************

Damian swept Ana off her feet, cradling her securely against his chest as he carried her up the private staircase toward the VIP mezzanine. The heavy thrum of the bass faded behind the velvet curtains of the secluded lounge, replaced by the hushed, stunned silence of the room’s occupants.

​Valerie was slouched in the corner booth, clutching an ice bucket to her forehead, but her jaw went slack the second she caught sight of them. Across the low lacquer table, Julian stood like an immovable sentinel over Clara.

He was trying to wrap his suit jacket around her bare shoulders, but an intoxicated Clara was aggressively batting his hands away, mumbling with slurred venom that his tailored wool was "stop it playboy."

​Julian looked thoroughly murderous, his pride battered by Clara’s relentless defiance even while she could barely sit upright. But when Damian walked in... carrying Anastasia like an emperor retrieving his crown, Ana’s flushed face buried limply against his neck... Julian froze, his sharp gray eyes widening in genuine disbelief.

​Nobody in their circle had ever seen Damian Sterling hold another human being with anything remotely resembling reverence.

​Damian gently set Ana down into the deep velvet banquette, keeping one heavy arm hooked possessively around her waist to support her swaying frame. His dark eyes flicked over her glassy, unfocused gaze.

​"Water," Damian commanded, his gravelly voice snapping the attentive waitstaff into immediate action. "And whatever cold plates you have ready in the back. Now."

​Within seconds, a crystal carafe of ice water and a tiered silver platter of gourmet finger foods were set on the marble table. Damian poured a glass, bringing the rim directly to Ana’s lips.

​"Drink, Anastasia," he murmured, his tone a rare blend of firm authority and coaxing warmth. "You need to flush the liquor out of your system. Eat something small to settle your stomach."

​Ana’s lashes fluttered, still dizzy from the intoxicating, tender kiss on the dance floor and the overwhelming weight of the alcohol. Nodding faintly, she sipped the cold water, her trembling fingers reaching for a delicate pastry tart topped with spun honey and dark, crushed garnish from the top tier of the platter.

​She took a slow, quiet bite.

​The sweetness was sharp, followed by a faint, nutty aftertaste that didn’t register right away through her dulled senses. Damian watched her chew, his large hand resting flat and steady on the small of her back.

​Then, the world shattered.

​A sharp, violent constriction clamped around Ana’s airways like a tightened noose.

​The glass of water slipped from her numb fingers, shattering against the marble floor. Her chest heaved on a sudden, desperate hitch, a terrifying wheeze tearing from her throat. Her hands flew up to claw at the high knit collar of her dress, her skin instantly blooming in a feverish, burning rash that crept up her neck.

​Damian’s posture locked rigid, his hand snapping out to catch her before she slumped forward.

​"Ana?" The calm command in his voice fractured into pure alarm. "Anastasia, look at me."

​She couldn’t. Her hazel eyes were wide with terror, rolling back as she struggled to pull in a single molecule of air, her lips already beginning to swell.

​Damian’s gaze dropped to the half-eaten pastry on the silver tray, his obsidian eyes locking onto the fine, powdery garnish. His father’s syndicate files slammed through his mind with brutal clarity.

​Crushed bitter nuts.

​A lethal, weaponized dose hidden in plain sight.

​Across the dimly lit corridor of the mezzanine, the smoked glass door of the service stairs clicked quietly shut... leaving behind the faint, lingering scent of expensive French perfume.

"Dimitri! The med-kit from the car... NOW!" Damian’s roar shattered the muffled hum of the VIP lounge, rattling the crystal on the tables.

​Dimitri didn’t ask questions. He bolted through the heavy velvet curtains, his combat boots hammering down the private staircase.

​Julian was on his feet in a fraction of a second, any trace of frustration erased by raw tactical instinct. "Lock down every service exit and the VIP lounge!" Julian barked into his lapel comms, drawing his concealed sidearm as he stepped in front of Valerie and Clara. "Nobody leaves this venue alive until we clear the floor!"

​The tequila had evaporated from Valerie’s veins the moment glass shattered. "Ana!" she shrieked, scrambling across the plush booth, but Clara grabbed her arm, keeping her clear of the thrashing chaos. Clara stared in pale horror, her own breath catching as she watched Ana claw frantically at her throat, her lips rapidly swelling, turning a faint, terrifying shade of blue.

​"Look at me, Ana! Stay with me!" Damian commanded, his voice cracking with a frantic, unhinged terror no one in the room had ever heard from him.

​He dropped to his knees on the marble floor, pulling her trembling, convulsive body against his chest. His large hands clamped onto the high knit collar of her dress and ripped downward with brutal force, tearing the fabric open to expose her throat and chest.

Her skin was burning, covered in a mottled, angry crimson rash, her pulse fluttering like a trapped hummingbird beneath his thumb.

​"Damian..." The sound that left her lips was barely human... a suffocating, desperate rattle as her airways snapped shut. Her hazel eyes rolled back, her hands weakly swatting the air before going limp against his forearm.

​"No. Don’t you dare close your eyes, Anastasia!" Damian snarled, his broad frame shaking with pure adrenaline. "Stay awake! That’s an order!"

​The curtain flew open. Dimitri skidded across the floor, sliding on his knees and slapping a black tactical trauma pack onto the marble, ripping the zipper open to reveal two sterile auto-injectors.

​Damian snatched the epinephrine pen, uncapping the safety needle in a single, fluid motion. Without a second’s hesitation, he drove the needle straight through the fabric of her skirt into the outer muscle of her thigh, depressing the plunger until the metallic click echoed in the room.

​He held it there, counting the agonizing seconds against her skin, his jaw clenched so hard a vein throbbed violently against his temple.

​"Breathe, goddammit," he rasped, tossing the spent injector aside and tilting her chin back. "Ana, breathe!"

​A violent, jagged gasp tore through her throat as the medication hit her bloodstream. Her back arched off the floor, drawing in a thin, desperate whistle of air before she went entirely limp, her head lolling against his shoulder, barely conscious.

​"Her vitals are bottoming out. The airway is compromised... she needs a hospital ventilator right now," Julian said, his voice deadly calm as he surveyed the perimeter. "My men have the service alley cleared. Ambulances will take ten minutes to navigate the downtown traffic."

​"We aren’t waiting for an ambulance," Damian ground out.