Chapter 10 - The Sovereign Queen
When Volkov’s remaining mercenaries turned the corner expecting to find a dead kingpin, they were met with a storm of absolute devastation.
Ivy moved like a phantom through the container maze. Her shots were quick, precise, and fatal. Three mercenaries fell in five seconds, each hit with a single headshot.
Volkov scrambled backward in terror as the woman in the dark suit advanced on him like the Angel of Death. He raised his pistol, but Ivy shot the weapon out of his hand before he could pull the trigger.
Volkov collapsed onto his knees, clutching his ruined, bleeding hand. "Wait! Please! I have money! Millions!"
Ivy walked up to him, the barrel of the rifle pressed directly against his forehead. Her eyes were as cold as icy steel.
"You killed my father," Ivy said softly, her voice carrying over the sound of the falling rain. "And you shot the man I love."
SQUEEZE.
The bullet ended Nikolai Volkov’s reign forever.
Rocco and the medical team swarmed the dock seconds later. "He’s still breathing!" Rocco shouted, kneeling beside Damon’s bleeding body. "Get the trauma kit! Move!"
They rushed Damon to his private medical facility inside the estate. For twelve agonizing hours, Ivy stood outside the operating room doors, refusing to change out of her bloody tactical clothes, refusing to rest, refusing to leave his side.
When the surgeon finally stepped out, wiping his forehead, he looked at Ivy. "He lost a lot of blood, and two ribs are fractured, but the armor absorbed the brunt of the buckshot. He's going to live."
Ivy let out a shaky breath, falling back against the wall as tears of relief washed over her face.
Two days later, Damon opened his eyes in his private hospital room at the estate. The sunlight poured through the large windows, illuminating the quiet room.
Sitting in the chair beside his bed was Ivy. She was wearing an elegant black silk blazer, her dark hair neatly tied back, looking every bit like the ruler of an empire. On her lap lay the master ledgers of the Cole Syndicate.
Damon smiled weakly, his voice raspy. "You look... expensive."
Ivy looked up, a soft, beautiful smile breaking across her face. She stood up and gently sat on the edge of his bed, taking his hand in hers.
"I’ve spent the last forty-eight hours securing your ports, Damon," she said softly. "Volkov’s men have surrendered. Vance is in federal custody facing life in prison. And the French cartel just signed a long-term trade deal—with a permanent thirty percent clause."
Damon stared at her, his heart swelling with immense pride and deep affection. He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles softly.
"I asked for an interpreter," Damon murmured, looking into her eyes with pure devotion. "And I got the queen of the city."
Ivy leaned down, resting her lips gently against his. "I’m not going anywhere, Damon. We build this empire together."
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Six months later, the Cole Estate hosted the largest syndicate gathering in North American history. Kings from Marseilles, Bogotá, and London stood around the grand dining room table, raising their glasses in tribute.
At the head of the mahogany table sat Damon Cole. And directly by his side, sitting in a matching leather throne with the authority of a sovereign queen, was Ivy Marlowe—the invisible maid who spoke one sentence and saved an empire.
