The explosion rattled the glass.
Elara flinched, the coffee cup slipping from her hand and shattering against the marble counter. For a breathless second she thought it was thunder, but the deep boom was followed by the unmistakable crack of gunfire.
Damian was already moving. One second he was across the room, the next he was at the window, jaw clenched, eyes narrowed against the smoke rising from the streets below.
"Get away from the glass," he barked.
Her pulse hammered in her throat. "What—what is it?"
He didn't answer. He spun on his heel, phone in hand, and strode toward the hall, his voice sharp as he snapped orders in Italian.
Elara pressed herself against the counter, trembling. The sound of shouting drifted up from the street—men yelling, tires screeching, sirens wailing somewhere far off. It wasn't just a fight. It was war.
She didn't need to be told who had started it. The Bratva.
The elevator dinged open before she could think, and Marco burst into the penthouse with two other men at his back. His face was pale, his shirt streaked with soot.
"They hit the south docks," Marco panted. "Fuel tanks. Fire's spreading fast."
Damian's eyes narrowed. "Casualties?"
Marco hesitated. "At least a dozen. Some of ours."
A muscle twitched in Damian's jaw, but his expression didn't waver. "Get the trucks out. I want every remaining shipment locked down and moved north. If we lose the docks, we lose distribution. Petrov knows that."
"What about the police?" Marco asked.
Damian's lips curved in something cold, not quite a smile. "By the time they get there, there'll be nothing left to find."
Elara's stomach twisted. He spoke of destruction like it was strategy, like human lives were nothing but pieces on his board. And yet… she couldn't tear her eyes off him. The way he moved, the way he commanded—there was a terrible beauty in it.
Then his gaze cut to her, sharp and unyielding. "You. Go to the safe room. Now."
Her chest tightened. "I'm not—"
"Elara." His tone left no room for argument.
She swallowed, her throat dry. "And if I refuse?"
His nostrils flared, and for a heartbeat, fire flickered in his eyes. Not anger. Fear.
"You won't," he said finally. "Because you're smarter than that."
The room spun around her. For once, his certainty was a chain she didn't mind wearing.
The safe room was colder than she remembered. Stark steel walls, a hum of filtered air, the faint tang of gun oil. Damian had shoved her inside with a promise he'd return, but minutes felt like hours when she was left with only her own heartbeat for company.
Elara paced, chewing at her lip, her hands trembling despite herself. She thought of the fire spreading across the docks, of men screaming in smoke and chaos. Of Damian in the middle of it, untouchable, unstoppable… until he wasn't.
Every second stretched. Every sound from beyond the door made her jump.
And then, finally, the lock hissed, the door sliding open.
Damian filled the frame, shoulders squared, hair mussed, a streak of soot cutting across his cheek. His shirt was torn at the sleeve, blood soaking into the fabric.
Her chest seized. "You're hurt—"
"It's not mine." He stepped inside, slammed the door behind him, and leaned back against it, breathing hard. For the first time, she saw cracks in his composure.
She moved toward him before she could think. "Damian—"
"Don't," he rasped, holding up a hand.
But his hand was shaking. Not from weakness. From fury.
"They think they can gut me on my own streets," he said, voice low, lethal. "They think fire and fear will make me kneel." His eyes burned as they locked on hers. "They're wrong."
Elara swallowed hard. She should have been terrified. She should have curled away from the monster in front of her.
Instead, she reached out and touched his sleeve, just above the bloodstain. Her fingers trembled. "Then show them."
His head snapped up, surprise flashing across his face. Not fear, not innocence—defiance. From her.
And for the first time, Damian Moretti smiled. Not the cold, calculated twist of lips she'd seen a hundred times. A real smile. Dangerous.
"You'll be the death of me, Elara Donovan," he murmured.
Her breath caught. "Maybe I'll be the life of you instead."
The air between them vibrated with unspoken things. His hand came up, hovering just shy of her face, not quite touching, as though he knew one more step would tip them both over an edge neither could climb back from.
And then the phone on his hip buzzed, shattering the moment.
He growled low, turned, and answered. His voice was sharp, the language switching back to Italian as he barked orders.
Elara stood frozen, her heart in her throat, knowing the war outside was only just beginning.
And that somehow, against every instinct she had, she wanted to stand beside him when the fire burned everything else down.