The ruins breathed like a graveyard.
Stone arches lay shattered, their edges blackened by old fire. Vines crawled over broken marble, reclaiming what blood had once paid for.
Damian moved through the wreckage in silence, every step measured, every instinct sharpened to a blade.
This place had been one of Alessandro's forgotten strongholds abandoned after the first blood war. Damian hadn't come here by accident.
Someone had led him.
A soft crunch sounded behind him.
He didn't turn.
"I wondered how long it would take you to follow the trail," a familiar voice said, smooth as oil over steel. "You always did hate unanswered questions."
Damian closed his eyes for a fraction of a second.
Then he turned.
Marco stepped out from behind a fallen pillar, dressed in black tactical gear, a gun loose in his hand like it was an extension of his arm.
His smile was sharp, almost pleased like a man finally standing where he believed he belonged.
