The Mafia Boss Stormed the Airplane Aisle in a Rage — Until He Looked Down at the Three-Year-Old Boy With His Exact Green Eyes

Driven by pure, animalistic desperation, Silas reached inside his grey suit jacket for his heavy handgun. He was going to shoot Cassandra right there on the tarmac to silence the witness, fully expecting his ten guards to cover him.

Click.

Before Silas could even pull his weapon from the holster, ten heavy, suppressed rifles were simultaneously cocked.

But they weren't aimed at Damon.

Every single guard on the tarmac had raised their weapons and aimed them directly at Silas’s head.

Silas froze, his gun trembling violently in his hand. He looked around in absolute, suffocating terror. The men he had supposedly paid off were staring at him with lethal contempt.

Damon slowly stepped forward, pushing Silas’s gun back down into his holster with his bare, tattooed hand.

"You really thought my own security detail answered to you?" Damon growled softly, the cinematic realism of his absolute control paralyzing the traitor. "I knew there was a rat in my organization for four years. I just didn't know it was my own blood until twenty minutes ago."

Silas let out a pathetic, shaking breath, raising his hands in surrender.

"I texted Marcus from the plane," Damon continued coldly. "He intercepted your men. The guards standing around you belong entirely to me."

"Damon, please!" Silas shrieked hysterically, completely abandoning his tough-guy persona. He dropped to his knees on the cold concrete. "The Russians forced me! I didn't want to kill you! I never knew about the babies, I swear!"