The house was quieter than usual, a kind of silence that pressed against the walls and made Elara's skin prickle.
She knew something had shifted. The guards moved with sharper precision, voices clipped, eyes flicking to corners as though shadows themselves had grown teeth.
By the time Marco appeared outside her room that morning, jaw set tight, she already knew where he was taking her.
"Boss wants you," he said simply.
Her throat tightened. She followed him through the winding hallways until they reached the basement staircase. Elara had never been allowed down there. The door alone was enough to raise goosebumps—thick steel, guarded by two men who looked like they'd rather shoot than speak.
Marco swiped a key card, punched in a code, and the door hissed open.
The air inside was colder, damp, and smelled faintly of bleach and iron.
Her steps faltered. "What is this?"
Marco didn't answer.
At the bottom of the stairs, Damian waited. He wasn't in a suit this time. Black shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows, veins tense in his forearms. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes… they burned.
"Come in," he said.
Elara's heart pounded, but she obeyed.
The room was stark, concrete walls lined with steel cabinets, a single bulb overhead. And in the center—tied to a chair, blood dripping from his mouth—sat one of the men she recognized.
Nico.
He'd been one of the few who ever spoke kindly to her, slipping her small comforts in the kitchen, telling her once in hushed tones that he had a little sister her age. Now his hands were bound, his face swollen from a beating, eyes darting desperately between Damian and her.
"Damian," Elara whispered, horror lacing her voice. "What is this?"
Damian didn't look at her. His gaze was locked on Nico. "You fed Petrov my shipments."
Nico shook his head frantically, blood flecking his lips. "No, boss, I swear—"
Damian slammed a fist onto the metal table, the sound reverberating through the room. "Don't lie to me."
Elara jumped at the sound, her whole body tightening.
Nico's chest heaved. "I didn't betray you. Please. You know me."
Elara turned, desperate. "He's just a boy, Damian. Look at him!"
Damian's eyes flicked to her then, sharp and dangerous. "Do you think I don't want to believe him? Do you think I enjoy this?"
"Yes!" The word tore from her before she could stop it. "Because this is what you do. You break people until they confess what you already decided is true!"
His nostrils flared. "You think this is a game? Men died because someone opened their mouth. My docks burned. My empire took a hit. Do you think that just… happens?"
Elara's voice wavered. "Then prove it's him before you destroy him."
For a moment, silence hung thick. Marco shifted uncomfortably against the wall.
Damian crouched in front of Nico, his voice low, controlled. "I gave you a place here. Fed you. Paid you. Protected you. And you sold me out?"
Nico sobbed, shaking his head. "I didn't—"
Damian stood abruptly, grabbing a folder from the table. He flung it down in front of Nico, papers scattering. Elara caught glimpses—photos of Nico meeting a man in a dark alley, cash changing hands.
Her stomach dropped.
Nico's cries grew desperate. "It wasn't me, I swear! I—I was set up! They knew you'd suspect me, boss, please—"
Damian's jaw tightened. His hand went to the gun at his waistband.
"Damian, stop!" Elara's scream ripped through the room. She moved between him and Nico before she even thought about it, her body shaking, arms out like a shield. "You can't just shoot him!"
His eyes blazed. "Move."
"No." Her voice was sharp, firmer than she felt. "Not until you look at me. Really look. If you kill him and he's innocent, that blood will stain more than your hands. It will stain us."
For the first time, Damian's composure cracked. Something raw flashed across his face, fleeting but real. His hand trembled on the gun.
Marco cleared his throat carefully. "Boss… maybe we test it another way."
Damian's eyes snapped to him, furious—but then he exhaled slowly, lowering the weapon.
"Fine," he muttered. He motioned to the guards. "Lock him up. Keep him breathing. For now."
The guards dragged Nico away, his sobs echoing down the hall until silence swallowed them.
Elara collapsed back against the table, chest heaving.
Damian's gaze lingered on her, unreadable. "You don't get it, do you?" His voice was low, dangerous. "Mercy is weakness. Weakness gets us killed."
Her eyes burned. "And what about humanity, Damian? What about not becoming the monster they already think you are?"
He stepped closer, so close she could feel the heat of him, his breath brushing her cheek. "Maybe I am the monster. But if I am, then you—" He stopped, words caught in his throat. His jaw clenched. "You shouldn't be here."
Her heart twisted. "Then why do you keep me here?"
The silence stretched until it was unbearable. Finally, he turned and walked out, the steel door slamming behind him.
Later that night, Elara found herself pacing her room, nerves shredded. Every sound in the hall made her flinch. She couldn't stop thinking of Nico's broken face, of Damian's hand trembling on the gun, of the brief flicker of something human behind his eyes.
When her door opened quietly, she froze.
Damian stood there, shadows clinging to him, tie loosened, hair mussed from his hands. He looked exhausted, hollowed out.
"What do you want?" she whispered.
He didn't answer right away. He just leaned against the doorframe, watching her like she was the only thing tethering him to this earth.
Finally, he said, "I don't know anymore."
Her breath caught. The confession was so uncharacteristic, so broken, that it cracked something open in her chest.
She stepped toward him, slow, hesitant. "Then let me remind you."
His eyes darkened, torn between pulling her closer and pushing her away.
When he finally reached for her, it wasn't with the violence she expected. His hand cupped her face gently, trembling slightly, as though she were the only thing he couldn't break.
And for the first time, Damian Moretti—the devil in flesh, the man who commanded death like others commanded air—kissed her like he might drown without it.
It was not possession. It was not control.
It was desperation.