The scent of sweat, leather, and sex still clung to Damian's skin as he stepped into the rainfall shower, letting the water pummel down his sculpted frame. His muscles ached in the way he liked—earned through punishment given, not received.
He'd taken three women the night before, one after the other, then all at once. The fourth—his personal assistant, Mira—had been the last to break. She resisted at first, claimed she wouldn't share her body with a lowly house servant. But once Damian wrapped her hair around his fist and shoved her face between Lana's thighs, the resistance turned to trembling devotion.
They all gave in eventually. They always did.
He turned off the water, toweled himself dry, and stepped into the bedroom.
Lana—his golden-haired servant—was still kneeling beside the bed, head down, back straight. Mira lay face-down on the sheets, bare, bruised, thighs trembling, spit and cum dried on her cheeks and chest.
He stood between them, silent for a moment. Then:
"Dress."
Mira moved without hesitation this time, wincing slightly as she slipped into her blouse and pencil skirt. She didn't meet Lana's eyes.
"Lana," Damian said, walking past her. "You stay. Clean this room. And make sure your mouth is ready for when I return."
"Yes, Master," she whispered, flushed and obedient.
---
10:42 PM – En Route to the Meeting
The black Maybach cut through the city like a blade. Damian sat in the back seat, dressed in a perfectly tailored charcoal suit, the very picture of refined cruelty. At a glance, he was a successful merchant prince—legitimate, clean, above reproach. But beneath the polished surface, he was the one who moved shadows.
Mira sat beside him, legs crossed, every inch the professional again, save for the faint bruise beneath her jaw and the way her throat bobbed nervously when she swallowed.
"Recap," Damian said, voice low.
She opened her tablet with practiced ease. "Adrik Volkov requested the meeting. Three days ago, his men rerouted one of our Eastport shipments—containers marked, scrubbed, resold through black channels. He claims it was a mistake. His lieutenants acted without orders."
"Did they?"
"No. He knew. He just thought we wouldn't notice."
Damian smirked. "He thought wrong."
Mira continued. "We intercepted the cargo, moved in quietly. The buyers are gone. Volkov knows what's at stake. Tonight, he wants to make peace."
"Peace," Damian echoed, the word a mockery in his mouth.
He looked out the window. "I'll take his wives. I'll take his fortune. And I'll take his men. He crossed a line."
"Yes, sir," Mira said, and a chill moved down her spine at the cold certainty in his voice.
Damian glanced at her. "You're here to witness, not to speak."
"Understood."
He smiled faintly. Not for her. Just for himself.
This wouldn't be a meeting.
It would be a demonstration.
---
A Master's Terms
The estate was lavish, sprawling — all stone columns, iron gates, and gold fixtures. But no amount of wealth could mask fear. Not tonight.
Damian stepped out of the Maybach, Mira trailing one step behind. She'd changed from sleek assistant to something colder now, lips painted blood-red, high heels echoing like judgment across marble floors.
Adrik Volkov was waiting in the central hall, a man in his fifties, barrel-chested and desperate. His eyes darted from Damian to Mira, then back to Damian. Sweat beaded on his brow.
"You came. I appreciate—"
Damian held up a hand. "Don't speak."
Adrik flinched like he'd been struck.
Two women stood behind him, pale and trembling. The younger, Selena, had soft curls and a gentle face. The older, Leisaja, was elegant, darker-haired, her gown tight across full hips. Both wore the kind of jewelry men gave to cover bruises.
Damian approached them. Looked them over.
Then: "They belong to me now."
Adrik blinked. "Damian… please. They're—"
"They were yours. Now they're mine. Because you touched what belonged to me."
A beat of silence.
Then Damian stepped close to Adrik, speaking just loud enough to echo off the marble:
"You thought you could skim off my trade lines. You thought you were safe behind your front. You're not. You owe me."
He turned to Mira. "Tell him what he's giving up."
Mira's voice was as sharp as ice. "Fifty percent of his legal holdings. Thirty-three percent of his soldiers. And both of his wives."
Adrik's hands curled into fists. "You can't just—"
"I can," Damian interrupted. "I already have."
Then, without looking away from Adrik, Damian hooked a finger at Leisaja.
"Strip."
She hesitated for one breath too long.
"Now."
Her hands moved shakily to her dress. It slid off her shoulders. Lace and silk pooled at her feet. Damian stepped behind her, gripped her jaw, and bent her over the long obsidian table in the center of the room.
Selena gasped.
Adrik tried to step forward. Two of Damian's guards raised their weapons in silence.
"You made this choice," Damian said as he unbuckled his belt. "You'll watch."
And then he took Leisaja—not with tenderness, but with cold purpose, driving into her with the brutal rhythm of power. She whimpered. Then moaned. Then cried out as the sting of his palm landed across her thigh.
Damian didn't stop.
After he finished with her, he pulled Selena forward next. She tried to resist, sobbing that she was young, that she was innocent.
"Innocence doesn't exist in this world," Damian said flatly, wrapping her hair around his fist. "Only ownership."
He took her on the table as well—forcing her to look her husband in the eye as Damian broke her obedience.
When both women lay used and ruined before him, Damian fastened his belt.
"Your wives serve me now," he said. "Your money is mine. Your men are mine."
Adrik looked hollow, defeated.
Damian leaned in close.
"This is mercy. You walk away alive. Next time, I won't be generous."
He turned to Mira. "Clean this mess. Take the contracts. I want them signed by midnight."
"Yes, sir."
Without another word, Damian walked out. The echo of his steps left a silence more deafening than gunfire.
He didn't need to kill to prove his power.
He just needed them to kneel.
---
Damian's boots echoed as he turned back toward the broken man. Adrik hadn't moved. His wives lay shivering behind him, used and branded in silence. The last of his pride leaked out like blood from an open wound.
But Damian wasn't done.
He paused at the foot of the long table, lighting a cigar. The smoke curled upward like a serpent.
"You get to keep your seat in the North," Damian said, calm as ever. "You'll still wear your ring. Still shake hands. Still play your pathetic little games in public."
Adrik looked up, hope flickering behind swollen eyes.
Then Damian stepped close—too close—and whispered like the devil himself:
"But you're mine now. And everyone who matters will know it."
He blew smoke into Adrik's face.
"Thirty percent of all your current operations. Legal. Illegal. Every penny. I get it."
Adrik opened his mouth to speak, but Damian didn't let him.
"And whenever I feel like hosting a little bloodsport—sending boys to play in the dirt with lesser mafias—you go. You win. And you come back with victory in your teeth like a dog who knows its master."
He leaned forward, eyes burning.
"Do you understand me?"
Adrik nodded, once.
"I asked you a question."
"Yes," Adrik croaked. "Yes, Master."
Damian smiled — not kindly.
"Good."
He turned away, the matter already dead behind him. Mira fell into step beside him, tablet in hand, a fresh contract gleaming on the screen.
"Have it all signed by tonight," he said. "And send someone to collect my shares. I want them counted by dawn."
"Yes, sir."
As they stepped out into the dark, cold air of the courtyard, Mira paused.
"What about the rest of his family?"
Damian didn't even glance back.
"They belong to me now."
And with that, he climbed into the car, leaving behind the scent of cigar smoke, sex, and fear.
The scent of leather and cold air lingered as the door of the black Maybach clicked shut. Damian leaned back in the seat, one hand resting lazily on Mira's bare thigh. She didn't flinch. Her face was cool, professional. The aftermath of the meeting still danced in her mind—the sound of broken pride, the taste of control. But Damian wasn't done.
"Any small mafia I can steal quick?" he asked, voice like silk over steel. His eyes stared out the window, but his mind was already plotting.
Mira's fingers danced across her tablet. "Yes," she said after a beat. "There's a pocket syndicate tucked between Eastern and Central blocks. They're isolated enough not to trigger a political mess."
"Are you sure he can handle it?" Damian asked, a smirk tugging at his lips. "After what I've taken from him?"
Mira nodded. "He's still ranked fourteenth among the top twenty. Publicly, he won't lose face yet. And your name alone will do most of the talking."
A low chuckle rumbled in Damian's throat. "Then send him the message," he said. "Tell him when you go retrieve my new slaves and collect my initial share."
"Yes, sir," Mira said, eyes already focused on the screen, thumbs moving.
The car turned onto the expressway, cutting through the night like a blade through silk. Damian closed his eyes for a moment.
Not out of peace.
But satisfaction.
Control was a game.
And he always played to win.