The house didn't sleep that night.
Doors slammed. Radios crackled. Marco barked orders until his voice turned ragged. Even through her bedroom walls, Elara heard the hurried footsteps, the clipped voices. The Moretti mansion no longer felt like a fortress. It felt like a war bunker.
She curled into herself on the edge of the bed, knees pulled up, replaying the basement over and over. The way Lorenzo's eyes held steady even as the gun lifted. The echo of the shot. The way Damian didn't flinch.
Every blink brought it back.
She should have hated him. She wanted to. But her chest ached with something tangled—fear, yes, but something else she refused to name.
A soft knock pulled her out of her thoughts. Marco slipped inside without waiting for an answer.
"Boss wants you in his study."
Her stomach knotted. "Now?"
"Now."
The study was dim, lamplight pooling across the desk. Damian sat in the high-backed chair, jacket discarded, shirt sleeves rolled up. His tie hung loose, undone, as though he hadn't had time—or patience—to fix himself.
In front of him, the desk was a battlefield of folders, photographs, and whiskey glasses half-full.
He didn't look up when she entered. "Sit."
She sat, the silence stretching.
Finally, he spoke. "Petrov knows about Lorenzo's death. Word's already spreading. That means the Russians will push harder. They'll want blood. Mine. Marco's. Everyone tied to me."
"And me?" she asked quietly.
His gaze lifted, sharp. "Especially you."
Her throat closed. "Why?"
"Because you're leverage." His voice was flat, practical, like he was discussing the price of steel or the weather forecast. "Petrov knows I won't risk you. That makes you valuable to him."
She swallowed. "You mean vulnerable."
"Same thing in this world."
He poured himself another glass, the amber liquid catching the lamplight. His hands shook, just faintly, but enough for her to notice.
"You didn't have to kill him," she blurted. The words tumbled out before she could stop them. "You could've—locked him up, questioned him more—"
His eyes cut into her. "You think cages keep men like that from betraying you again?"
Her chest tightened. "So the answer is a bullet?"
He leaned forward, elbows on the desk, gaze like fire. "The answer is survival, Elara. Every second I hesitate, someone else takes the shot. Do you understand that? This isn't about right or wrong. It's about breathing tomorrow."
Her voice trembled. "And how many people have to die so you can keep breathing?"
For a moment, silence. Then, softer, rawer: "As many as it takes."
The words settled heavy between them.
Her eyes burned. She hated that she wanted to reach across the desk, to touch his hand, to strip away the armor he wore like skin. Instead, she sat frozen, nails digging crescents into her palms.
He broke the silence first. "Petrov has men in the city already. Marco tracked a few. They're close."
The knot in her stomach twisted tighter. "What does that mean for us?"
"It means the war just left the shadows." He stood, restless, pacing the length of the study. "It means you don't leave this house without me or Marco. It means you don't speak to anyone you don't trust with your life."
Her breath caught. "Damian, I don't— I don't know who I can trust anymore."
He stopped, turned to her. His jaw worked. "You trust me."
Her chest cracked open. A laugh escaped, bitter and broken. "You? After what I saw? After you put a gun to a man's head and—"
"Yes," he snapped. Then softer, almost a plea: "Yes. Because I'm the only thing standing between you and a grave."
The words lodged in her throat. She wanted to fight him, to scream, to deny it. But deep down, she knew it was true. Every path away from him led into Petrov's hands.
Her voice came out hoarse. "You terrify me, Damian."
His shoulders sagged. "Good. Fear keeps you alive."
Their eyes locked. For one dangerous, unguarded heartbeat, the world outside the study dissolved. There was no Petrov, no Russians, no empire built on blood. Just the two of them, bound by something darker than love.
Then Marco burst in.
"They hit the docks," he said, breathless. "Two men down, shipment gone. Petrov's making his move."
Damian's expression hardened instantly. The softness vanished like smoke.
"Get the cars ready," he ordered. "We're done waiting."
Marco nodded and disappeared.
Elara's chest squeezed. "What does that mean?"
Damian holstered his gun, grabbing his jacket. His eyes cut to hers. "It means war, Elara. And it starts tonight."
The mansion erupted in motion. Men armed themselves, radios crackled with locations, cars lined the drive. Elara stood in the hall, heart pounding as Damian gave sharp orders, every word dripping with authority.
She should've felt safe in the chaos. But instead, she felt the ground shifting beneath her feet, like she was standing on the edge of something vast and consuming.
As Damian climbed into the car, he looked back once, eyes locking on hers.
Not a goodbye. Not a promise. Something heavier.
And then the convoy roared into the night, engines growling like beasts set loose.
Elara stood in the doorway long after the tail lights vanished, whispering to the empty air:
"God help us all."