The city smelled of smoke.
Even twenty floors above the streets, Elara could taste the acrid sting in the back of her throat, could see the faint smear of orange against the night sky where the docks had burned.
Damian hadn't slept. He hadn't even loosened his tie. He'd spent the hours since the explosion glued to his phone, trading clipped orders in Italian, his movements precise, relentless.
Elara lingered near the window, arms wrapped tight around her middle. She wanted to speak, to ask what came next, but the words caught in her throat. It wasn't her place. She was supposed to stay silent, to obey, to wait.
But silence felt like drowning.
Finally, she whispered, "How many?"
Damian didn't look up from the phone. "Seventeen confirmed. More unaccounted for."
Her stomach dropped. "Seventeen of yours?"
His eyes flicked to hers. Cold. Sharp. "Seventeen men who wore my colors. Who carried my name."
Elara's chest ached. She wanted to offer something—comfort, sympathy—but Damian's expression warned her off. He didn't want pity. He wanted blood.
The door burst open. Marco stormed in, face ashen, a sheen of sweat on his brow. "It's bad," he said hoarsely. "The fire gutted everything south. We pulled what we could, but Petrov's men were waiting. It wasn't just a strike, boss. It was a message."
Damian's jaw tightened. "Then I'll send one back."
Marco hesitated. "The men are shaken. They're looking to you. But—" He faltered, glanced at Elara. "There's talk that someone inside gave Petrov the dock schedule."
Elara stiffened. Betrayal. It made sense—the Bratva couldn't have hit that precisely without help.
Damian's gaze darkened. "Find the leak. Quietly. And when you do…" His voice dropped to a deadly whisper. "Bring him to me."
Marco nodded and slipped out, leaving the air heavy with unspoken violence.
Elara finally forced herself to speak. "You're going to kill them, aren't you?"
Damian turned to her slowly, his expression unreadable. "If you had a snake in your bed, Elara, would you cradle it? Or would you cut off its head before it bit you?"
She swallowed. "Not everyone deserves to die."
His mouth curved in something bitter. "In my world, everyone deserves to die. The only question is when."
Later that night, he took her with him.
Not to the docks—they were still smoldering under police patrol—but to a warehouse north of the river, where the survivors had gathered.
The air inside was thick with diesel and sweat, men huddled in small groups, their voices hushed. They straightened when Damian entered, like soldiers in the presence of a general.
Elara trailed behind him, acutely aware of their eyes on her. The girl he'd brought into the lion's den.
Damian stepped onto the low platform at the front. His presence filled the room, his voice carrying like iron through the smoke.
"They think they've crippled us," he said. "They think fire can bring me to my knees. But I don't kneel. Not to the Bratva. Not to anyone."
The men muttered agreement, fists tightening, jaws set.
Damian's gaze swept the room, sharp as a blade. "Seventeen of ours are dead. That blood demands balance. Tomorrow night, Petrov's men will burn for what they've done."
A roar of approval rippled through the warehouse.
Elara's heart pounded. She should have been horrified. She should have recoiled from the cold way he promised vengeance. But part of her—a dark, shameful part—felt the echo of power in his words. Felt what it meant to belong to someone the world feared.
And when Damian's eyes met hers across the crowd, she saw it: the storm he carried inside. Rage and grief, coiled so tightly it could only be unleashed in blood.
The drive back was silent. Damian's hand gripped the wheel, knuckles pale, his profile hard as stone.
Finally, Elara couldn't take it anymore. "Do you ever wonder what it would be like," she asked softly, "to just walk away? To let it all burn and not look back?"
His jaw tightened. "And go where?"
"Anywhere." She turned toward him. "You could disappear. Start over. Leave this war behind."
He glanced at her, eyes dark and unreadable. "Do you think monsters get to start over?"
Her throat tightened. "You're not—"
"Don't." His voice cracked like a whip. "Don't call me something I'm not. Don't dress me in the skin of a man I buried a long time ago."
She flinched, but she didn't look away. "Maybe he's not buried as deep as you think."
His hands tightened on the wheel, but he said nothing. The silence between them stretched taut, humming with everything neither dared to admit.
Back at the penthouse, the city still glowed faintly from the fires. Damian stood at the window, hands braced against the glass, staring down at the streets below.
Elara hovered in the doorway, torn. He looked untouchable, untouchably broken.
Finally, she crossed the room, her voice barely above a whisper. "You can't keep carrying it all alone."
He didn't turn. "There's no one else who can."
Her chest ached. She wanted to reach out, to touch him, to anchor him back to the man she glimpsed in rare, unguarded moments. But she stayed still, knowing that if she stepped too close, there'd be no turning back.
"Then let me," she said quietly. "Even if it's just a little."
For the first time all night, Damian looked at her. And in his eyes she saw something she'd never seen before. Not rage. Not control. Something raw. Something like need.
The silence between them trembled on the edge of breaking.
But before it could, his phone buzzed again. He cursed under his breath, tore his gaze away, and answered.
Elara stood frozen, heart pounding, knowing that whatever line she'd just crossed, neither of them could ever go back.