Chapter 5
The black car rolled to a stop outside the warehouse.
Damien stepped out, the evening air carrying the scent of oil and smoke. His white shirt hung open at the collar, a sharp black suit draped over broad shoulders. A cigar burned between his fingers. He took one slow drag, exhaled a thick cloud, and let it drift lazily into the night before flicking the ash aside.
"Inside," said Dan, his right-hand man.
The steel doors groaned as they opened, revealing a grim scene. A man sat bound to a chair in the center of the warehouse, blood staining his shirt, his face swollen from repeated blows.
The moment his eyes found Damien, he panicked.
"Please—please forgive me, Mr. Carter. I didn't mean to—I was forced—"
"Shhh."
Damien bent low, his breath calm, his voice a whisper edged with steel.
"Save your strength."
His ringed hand brushed over the man's head, almost gentle, almost mocking. Straightening, Damien gestured, and another chair was brought. He sat down directly in front of the trembling man, crossing his legs like it was nothing more than a business meeting.
"Tell me where my goods are," he said evenly.
"I—I don't know, Mr. Carter! I swear I'd never betray you!" Tears and snot ran down the man's face.
Damien sighed, leaning back.
"I really don't want to do this."
Dan placed a tray beside him. On it gleamed a pair of steel pliers. Damien picked it up, weighing the tool in his hand.
"Untie him."
"No! Please—don't! Don't!" the man begged as he was dragged forward, his hand wrenched onto the table before Damien.
Damien pressed the pliers down on his fingers. The man shrieked as blood spurted, splashing across Damien's white shirt. He didn't flinch.
"I'll talk! I'll talk!" the man sobbed.
Damien stopped, setting the pliers aside. His cold gaze lingered on the man's broken hand.
"Why didn't you say that earlier?" He clicked his tongue. "Look what you made me do."
A handkerchief was offered. Damien took it, cleaning the blood from his fingers with clinical precision.
"The Farrells," the man gasped. "They have it!"
Damien lit another cigar, his eyes narrowing.
"The Farrells never learn."
He rose smoothly. "Take him away."
"What do we do now?" Dan asked.
But before Damien could answer, his phone buzzed. The screen lit with a name that softened the storm in his eyes instantly.
Emma.
He answered, stepping out of the warehouse and sliding back into the car.
"Hello, Uncle Dami!"
His voice shifted, smooth and warm.
"Hello, my sunshine."
"I just called to remind you about tomorrow," Emma said eagerly. "And your promise."
Damien smirked, cigar between his fingers.
"And what promise is that?" he asked, feigning ignorance.
"Come on, Uncle Dami!" she whined. "You promised you'd bring my favorite actor, Franklin Eddie! You said it!"
Damien chuckled, the dangerous edge in his aura melting away.
"How could I ever forget? The princess of the Carter family's birthday, hm? Don't worry, I'll keep my word. I'd never disappoint you."
Emma giggled, her voice bubbling with excitement.
Then Damien's tone shifted playfully.
"So… how's school? Any boys giving you trouble? Because you know I can always… pay them a visit."
Emma burst into laughter. "No, Uncle Damien! Don't scare anyone off!"
"Good." His voice softened again. "Because no boy is worthy of you yet, princess."
Emma sighed, still giggling. "Okay, okay. Love you!"
"Love you too," Damien said before hanging up.
The screen went dark. He leaned back in the leather seat, the faint scent of smoke and blood clinging to him.
For the world, he was the Carter devil.
But for Emma—he was just Uncle Dami.
---
Franklin lay sprawled across the couch, the script still open in his hand. A half-empty bottle of wine rested on the floor beside a glass, its ruby contents staining the carpet. His lips moved faintly as he mumbled lines to himself, hazel eyes heavy with exhaustion. He had been rehearsing for hours, determined to impress Director Noah Ashford on the first day of filming.
But now, the wine had won. His lashes fluttered shut, and the script slipped from his fingers as sleep claimed him.
Outside, tires crunched against gravel. Damien's car rolled to a stop. He stepped out, the night clinging to him like a cloak, and entered the house.
The sight that greeted him froze him mid-stride.
Franklin—flawless in the eyes of millions—was sprawled in careless slumber, cheeks faintly flushed from drink. The bottle leaned dangerously near the edge of the table, the glass tipped on its side.
Damien's jaw tightened, but he said nothing. Instead, he bent down, picked up the bottle and glass, and carried them to the kitchen. When he returned, Franklin stirred, mumbling something incoherent. Damien paused, watching him.
A faint smile touched his lips.
Crossing the room, he brushed a stray lock of hair from Franklin's forehead. His gaze caught the crumpled script on the couch. He picked it up, scanned the lines, then set it aside. Without a word, he leaned down and lifted Franklin effortlessly into his arms.
Franklin barely stirred as Damien carried him upstairs. He laid him carefully on the bed, smoothing the covers over his body. But when Damien straightened to leave, Franklin's arm shot up, looping loosely around his neck.
"Don't… don't leave me," Franklin mumbled in his sleep.
Damien froze. His chest ached in a way he'd never admit. Slowly, he lowered himself back down, his lips brushing Franklin's forehead, then his cheek.
But then, in the haze of dreams, Franklin whispered again.
"…Noah."
The name cut sharper than any blade.
Damien stilled, staring at him, his expression unreadable. Franklin smiled faintly in his sleep, lost in some dream that did not belong to Damien.
Silence. Then Damien gently pried Franklin's hand away and stood.
In the bathroom, he shed his suit, phone pressed to his ear.
"Hello, Chris."
The man answered, nervous.
"Mr. Carter."
"Has Franklin been around… any Noah?"
There was a pause. "Do you mean Director Noah Ashford? He recently cast Franklin as the male lead in his new film."
Damien's hand froze mid-button. "Ashford, you say?" His voice was low, cold.
"Yes, sir. Is there a problem?"
"That's all. And cancel all plans for Franklin tomorrow." Damien cut the call before Chris could reply.
He glanced at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, water steaming the glass, tattoos curling down his chest and abdomen. Shadows danced across his body as he stepped into the shower.
Later, dressed in dark silk pajamas, Damien returned to the bedroom. Franklin still slept peacefully, unknowing.
Damien sat on the edge of the bed, scrolling through his phone. He typed a name.
Noah Ashford.
The search brought up images—sharp suits, calm smile, warm eyes. Damien's stare hardened. He looked at Noah's face, scoffed ,then at Franklin sleeping beside him.
His hand hovered in the air for a long moment before he raked his fingers through his own hair. He set the phone aside, slid beneath the covers, and pulled Franklin close.